


Echoes Beneath

by itsbeautiful



Series: Transcendent Suffering [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alana Bloom - Freeform, Anxiety Attacks, BDSM, Blasphemy, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Will, Brian Zeller - Freeform, Cannibalism, Catholic Guilt, Consensual Kink, Court, Crying Hannibal, Dark, Dark Romance, Dark Will, Dark Will Graham, Death Row, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Dom Will Graham, Dom/sub, Dominant Masochism, Dysfunctional Family, Edgeplay, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Everything Hurts, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Forgiveness, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Lecter's Trial, Hurt/Comfort, Immense Amounts of Not Talking and Feelings, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jack Crawford - Freeform, Jealous Hannibal Lecter, Jealous Will Graham, Jimmy Price - Freeform, Light BDSM, Light Sadism, Loss of Control, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Palace, Minor Molly Graham/Will Graham, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder Husbands in Prison, Murder Husbands on Death Row, Murder Husbands on Trial, Murder Trial, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Character(s), Polyamory, Possessive Hannibal, Possessive Will, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post: The Wrath of the Lamb, Prison, Prison Sex, Protective Hannibal, Protective Will, Punishment, Rimming, Self-Acceptance, Self-Harm, Semi-Public Sex, Separation Anxiety, Sequel, Sexual Tension, Soft Boys, Team Sassy Science, Top Hannibal, Top Will, Trauma, Violence, Will Graham's Trial, Witness Testimony, dark angst, mentions of Francis Dolarhyde, running out of time, transcendent suffering, welcome to hell - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2020-05-30 23:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 115,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsbeautiful/pseuds/itsbeautiful
Summary: (Sequel to Transcendent Suffering. http://archiveofourown.org/works/4961221/chapters/11392429 (This is not a standalone piece, so I highly recommend reading its first installment.))Thumbs drifted after tears before Hannibal leaned in to kiss each quivering bead of light, maroon eyes staring at the frightened boy looking out from piercing gaze, voice a soft whisper against lips. “Tell me, Will… was all the boundless beauty of this fallen world etched in the runes of your bones and…” A quiver of pain wavered notes to low hum of quiet. “And…writ to shine through the light of your eyes from birth? Or have you merely allowed me the grace, the honor, and privilege to witness your radiance in the life we have shared? To let me love you all the same?”They felt tremors beneath their tangled bodies rooted to the ground.“God, please…” Will murmured, a fresh sting of tears welling eyes, lifting them upward and praying for the first time in his life to anything that would listen.Take us. Take us both. Just don’t…please don't. Don’t take him from me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nyxxisdenayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxxisdenayne/gifts).



_If one were to ask the religiously devote what they might see upon their death, it is a near certainty they would all give the same mundane response. (What else can be expected of chatty lambs after all?) A bright light. Or even the absurd notion of heaven epitomized by pearly gates. They may say winged beings of the angelic or hellfire of beasts. A stranger notion of morality still to hold promise or threat to coerce human beings to pretend they are not what they say. Though God must have his amusements. But you and I can agree, there are far more terrifying monsters here with us on Earth than there will ever be in fantasy._

Glazed muddy maroon stared at a cluster of stars emerging from the dusk through welling blood and drooping lashes, body seizing to the tempo of a metal chain fence rattling.

_Having died nearly twice now—(and for what I imagine is the final time, I wish the circumstances were more favorable. This was a fairly impeccable linen silk blend before it grew better acquainted with a cold dirty alley, three pairs of filthy shoes, and a growing resentment of baseball.)—I assure you there is nothing to be seen. Only heard. Echoes beneath the surface._

_There is nothing distinct I’m afraid. Muddled tones of an oxygen starved brain and rushing blood of my own heart I suspect. But I hear them. And through it all, the most distinct tolling of bells…_

_I hear him._

*

_45 minutes earlier..._

Nostrils flared. Singed smoke exhaled.

“Come and get it.”

One heartbeat. Then two. Will smiled. Water flowed through him, around him, a gentle bubbling stream. Peaceful at last.

They would know what it meant to truly scream.

Sand poured from clawed fingers before flinging in to eyes. Will launched from a crouch and slammed into the woman with the shotgun as she stumbled, an arm up to shield her eyes. She was crying out in surprise even as his hands slid around her waist and they skid across the ground. He jammed his knife in the ground, slicing free strands of flowing blonde hair. Skin split open a red gash as a muzzle jerked up and into his jaw. They wrestled for the shotgun. Knees jabbed at the soft flesh on his sides. Fingers clenched around the barrel and stock. Slender biceps shook as Will pushed, snarling down at widening grey eyes. Feet began to kick more frantically as chokes gurgled free. Gleaming black spread a thick line across a windpipe. Pink painted nails loosened, eyes rolling back. He felt her last breath warm blood dripping down his chin. She went slack. He pressed two fingers to her carotid. There was still a pulse.

_I’m a survivor. Not a fucking monster._ It was his last cohesive thought as the rays of light slid below the horizon.

Meaty sweating palms shoved. Fingers jammed into slots between his ribs and the world tumbled out of focus. The shotgun slipped from his grasp. Will grunted as he ground face first through dirt and stone. He spit out gravel and blood from a split lip. He drove an elbow in a stomach, wrenching the upper half of his body around to face his attacker. The larger man had traded his taser for good old fashioned fists. Knuckles drove his face back to the ground. He registered the burst of pain before another replaced it.

“F-fucking Christ,” Will spit out as fingers wrapped his throat in a chokehold.

His palms beating against wide angled cheeks and thick arms were even less useful than he had hoped. Glancing blows. He wondered if it tickled, or if it was just a mere annoyance of a buzzing fly. He gasped for breath. Was it necessary for the goliath to choke him quite so hard? It wasn't like he was going anywhere.

“Give me the goddamn gun, Henry!”

He tipped his head. As much as one could with the allowances of 280 pounds of muscles and steel grip bearing down. The thin wisp of a man wavered on the horizon of strung laundry and skyline, thumbs scrubbing at eyes. The gun lay at his feet. But that could have been a hallucination. Will tongued at the loose molar seeping copper into the back of his throat to keep from thinking about how his chest was burning for air. The glint of a blade still stuck in the dirt a few feet away came to sharper focus. The younger man snorted air into his lungs and brought the blunt edge of his hand into the crook of a left elbow. The weight crushing him faltered forward. It was all he needed.

He gasped for air and rolled to the side. The other man may have outweighed him, but he was quicker. Or so he thought. No sooner had he twisted, fingers outstretched, before he was dragged across the ground by the waistband of his trousers. Stinging lit up the other side of his face. He swore through gritted teeth, dislodging the loose tooth and grimaced.

“I’ve had about enough of this shit!” Booming bounced off the buildings beyond.

Will was flipped onto his back. He spat out tooth and blood alike into a face. The larger man rose his fist to strike. His wrist snaked free from his side, thin bead of silver palmed between scabbed fingers. Black pupils dilated. He drove the switchblade into an abdomen, both fists shaking around the handle, and yanked through fatty tissue. He saw the man’s mouth contort open, but he couldn’t hear the scream. He only heard the rush of blood spraying out, hot and thick, a silent vision of red hitting his nose then his cheeks and mouth. It drenched the front of his shirt. The intestines unraveled first. Will scrabbled back, heels scuffing across the dirt, as they tangled across his ankles. Then the organs. A liver slid free. A stomach fell flat.

“J-jesus…” The younger man gasped for breath, legs heavy, knees shaking as he tried to get up.

He couldn’t look away. He watched the man claw at the ground, at the blood, trying to put the organs back _in_.

“Oh my god,” A high pitched wail shrieked.

Rattling metal inside shaking hands steadied. Gunpowder stung his nostrils before he heard the sound. Will blinked, eyes sliding to catch a glimpse of silver light tipping.

A bullet tore through his side.

*

Blood spattered a phone broken to pieces against cobblestone.

“He bit me! He fucking bit me!” The man shouting gestured wildly in the direction of his attacker.

The first blow of ringed knuckles sent Hannibal reeling, teeth dripping red with hot flesh and tendons. The second was accompanied with a gloating smile. His temple cracked against a concrete wall. His ears rang over the reverberation of voices.

“Fucking cocksucker! Piece of shit!”

“He’s bleeding real bad, man! Look at that!”

Red flooded his line of vision. Two shadows were advancing. The third was clutching at flesh hanging open over glistening muscles. A pistol spun against the ground.

“Nnn…” Hannibal let his shoulders and head roll back against concrete to focus the spreading blotch of pain, letting blood filter through clenched teeth. “Only one…of those…is true, gentleman.”

Another fist pummeled his stomach. His vision tunneled dark, body flushing hot. He dropped to a single knee, stomach retching before he vomited.

_“Getting too old for this shit…”_ The younger man’s imagined voice streamed through the black abyss of his mind as he surfaced.

Hannibal grunted a mild agreement, drawing up to a crouch. It was getting harder to control the pain. He dragged a forearm against his thigh, wiping spit and bile from his mouth. He stared down at glistening flesh beyond leather soles now covered in viscous and clicked his teeth. A perfectly good meal snatched from his jaws.

Eighteen filed claws scratched across stone. A low snarl turned to another grunting scream. His gaze snapped up.

Winston lunged, saliva spewing from open jaws, and sank teeth in a thick calf. The heavy man staggered, swearing and kicking his leg to shake the dog off. Eyes glowed eerily yellow in the dark. Teeth clamped tighter, blood pooling.

“Get this fuckin’ animal off me! Get it off me!”

A bat swung. A pitiful yelp pierced the air. Winston slid across the ground. The dog whined as he barreled into a crate, head slumping and coming to rest on his side.

The heavy man tumbled to the ground, blood gushing out. “I can’t move my leg. I can’t move it! You listening?”

The thin man stooped for the gun, struggling to grip as blood trickled from his wounded arm, and laughed. “Serves it right, stupid animal! Now, now, can I shoot the mutt?”

Crimson leather crinkled as a bat tapped resolutely, cool voice replying, “Go ahead, Marcus. Have your fun.”

A hammer drew back on a gun.

“Are you gonna let me bleed to fucking death, for Chrissake!”

“Shut up!” The bat swung in the direction of the voice. “Or you’ll be next. One little dog bite and you’re whining like a child. Take it like a man!”

Golden limbs twitched. Ribs slowly rose and fell. Watering brown eyes stared helplessly across the alley.

Hannibal inhaled and felt nothing but fire burning in his lungs, through bruising ribs, and coursing through his veins. And as he rose, he felt nothing at all except frigid cold of the snow where his sister had died in his arms. Something shifted inside his bones, dark, familiar, and howling out of jagged teeth.

“Shit! Watch out!”

The pistol swung. A shot cracked off. The money clip severed tendons on a throat with a single swipe. It buried deep in a windpipe cutting off a scream. Smoke plumed with the splinter of another bullet. Hannibal felt neither. The first grazed his cheek, thin red beading in its wake. The second bloomed red below his collarbone, tearing through muscle and shattering glass somewhere beyond. He threw his weight on top of the man with the gun. It skidded out of reach as palms flailed up to protect, his sank to destroy, ramming a skull hard against stone. A wet moan bubbled through lips. His thumbs scoured up cheeks and inched towards eye sockets. They shoved in. The man became faceless. Blood spurted and pooled in the shape of a lily opening mid morning. Even with the screams, it would never be as beautiful as the tender offering wilting above his heart in a torn pocket.

Aluminum smacked across a skull. Inhuman snarls stuttered as Hannibal fell, cold ground melding with his elbow and then against bruising ribs. He grunted, breath sending dirt scattering.

“Get up.”

He pushed up on palms, dirt gritting inside nicks and cuts. The bat came down at an angle on his spine and again on the back of his neck. He hit the ground, breath rushing out, biting his own tongue upon impact.

“I…” Sweat beaded on his brow. “…am going to enjoy… tearing your lungs…from your chest.”

Another swing smashed over his head. “Get up!”

Blood trickled from the nape of his neck, over tendons straining in his neck, and down his chin. Pain splintered through his skull. He struggled to see through a white fog. He looked across the alley. Winston whined pathetically, trying to rise before collapsing.

“If you can’t get up, old man, then I suggest you stay _the fuck_ down and come quietly.”

He dragged a torn knee forward, hair matted with red falling into his eyes, blood spraying as he snarled, “You are an ugly little thing, aren’t you?”

Ribs cracked on his left side, force of the blow sending him rolling across the ground. Hannibal groaned, beginning to feel the gaping burn below his shoulder. It felt sticky and warm and far too human. He found no comfort in the wailing sobs of the man three feet behind him. He stretched a hand above his head, fingertips tunneling through golden fur and placed a steady palm over a fluttering heart beat.

“Winston…” Hannibal touched golden ears, tracing sad wavering eyes, and lifted a drooping mouth to a half smile. “Winston, my little one. Just breathe.”

A blood soaked snout butted the side of his face, whine growing louder. Boots thudded over stone. Heavier footsteps dragged and scuffed after.

“I want you to…” His tone gentled, palm drifted over eyes to close them. “…go to sleep now. There is no need to see this.”

A fist hauled him up. Glowing red eyes lifted. He took a bite out of a meaty face, snagging on eyelashes and exposing an eye socket.

He spit it out in the direction of a torn leather jacket. “Had…enough?”

Rings crashed against the ever present smirk on his face. His bones collided against the corner of a building before bouncing against chain link. He crumpled to the ground. He tried to rise, arms and legs shaking. Another punch flattened his body in a gush of blood. He brought forearms up as a bat battered against them to protect his head. He released only a hissing breath. His body jerked and flailed silently as a steel toed boot rammed into his stomach again and again and again. He clenched teeth as blood seeped out and stared between the fissure of his arms at the night sky.

And Hannibal thought about god. His god.

_I hear him._

And how he loved every single wild curl on his head, the jagged lines of a crooked smile, and the echo of light shimmering in tepid pools of blue pulling him under.

*

Will skid across the sand, catching himself from falling with a palm, and hurled his body straight for a bullet clicking in a chamber. If the one throbbing to life in his side wasn’t going to kill him then neither was this one. He wrapped one hand around the gun and another at a wiry throat. The gun went off pointed at the sky. His ears rang. Fleeting nausea foamed at the back of his throat. Shoes and legs scuffed against one another. The gun slipped free. The handle swiped against the side of a head. The thin man fell to the ground with a limp rustle, red spiraling out from a temple.

The younger man slumped against the nearest crate, gun shaking against his thigh. Every inch of blood soaked clothing was growing cold, sticking to his skin. He felt like the wild birds he had seen on tv drowned in an oil slick. He gave a fleeting moment of silence for the tooth dislodged from his jaw and wondered if he might need it. His heart pounded. Or was it is head? Or his side? Or the vicious palm prints forming on his throat? Or was every nerve ending in his body screaming? He snorted softly. Did it make any difference? He was either going to be sick or black out. Or the third option, untimely death. He weighed each, head tipping up. At this juncture in his life, it almost sounded like what the F.B.I. called ‘forced compassionate leave.’ He figured it might as well be a much needed vacation.

“Fuck it…” He breathed, vision fading in and out. He tucked the gun in the back of his waistband. “I have too much to do.”

Will careened gracelessly over strewn bodies, leaning heavily on anything within grasp. Crates. Clothing line cables. Any wall that was standing more vertical than he could manage would do. He clutched his side. His fucking clothes were drenched. He had no way of telling how much blood was his and how much was well, the less fortunate.

_Should have thought of that before they provoked me… Hands behind your head. Get up. Get down on the ground._ He rolled eyes through caked blood. _Such bullshit procedure._

All he knew was he had to get to Hannibal before he lost consciousness. Before it was too late. They had to run.

He tried to amuse himself with humor to keep from thinking. From feeling the dull ache spreading and gushing through his fingers. He should have searched their bodies. But he didn’t really want to know. He knew. He just didn’t want to confirm it. Not yet. Will grimaced, huddling beneath a stoop to catch his breath. He wasn’t a gambling man. His father had been. And his father would place eighty percent stakes on the three bodies in the alley being of the government variety. Or agents of the less savory. It would have been a toss of a coin then.

_Son of a bitch would have won big too like he always wanted…_ The younger man peeled away from the wall, bloody smear remaining. _Guess our luck ran out…Christ. Agents…? Mercenaries? God, the Verger family out for blood at last?_

Will froze dead his tracks. And choked. He broke into a run. He heard it. It was real this time. A dog crying out for help. It was Winston. The soles of his shoes banged across cobblestone, dodging laundry and thickening ivy. Then a scream. Human. And another. And another. He barreled blindly down an alley, squinting to make out black outlined shapes. And… Christ, it almost sounded like a monster roaring in the dark. It almost sounded like…

His final breath left his lips in a hollow whisper, “…Hannibal…”

He slowed. Time slowed with him. He drew closer, stepping over a body discarded and strewn at an unnatural angle. If it was ever human, there were only empty sockets where eyes should have been. There was blood. So much blood. It dripped over a face, pooled down a neck, and spurted from what looked like a knife protruding from a throat. He saw a body curled in a corner of an alley. It was flailing unnaturally against the ground, silent except for cracking bones and thudding boots and grating metal. Arms shielding a face shifted over black holes engulfing red stars.

“Hannibal!” A raw shout ripped from lungs as Will tore forward.

Shadows unfurled from the dead end of the alley, reemerging as two figures, one bulky and one smaller. Then he saw, truly saw, and screamed out the name again. Saw Hannibal still and unmoving as heels of shoes and tips of boots kicked him over and over and over again. He realized the blood belonged to him. To Hannibal. To his monster. And he saw nothing. He merely heard the returning echoes of a demon shrieking.

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

In the sights of a gleaming barrel, a bullet released. A meaty head splintered, brains splattering through chain link. A stony thud followed.

“Don’t touch him!”

Claws wrenched a baseball bat away and hurled it down the alley. A gaping mouth let out a paralyzed yip. Frail bones fell to the ground before they were pinned at a waist and at a throat. His knuckles collided with bone, nose breaking and spraying red. Fingers dug into the nape of a neck, wrenching through hair.

“Don’t—“ A skull hammered against the ground to the staccato of each snarl. “–you _ever—_ fucking— touch him!”

It grew quiet. Still. Dusk fading to black. A bloodied palm slid around a stone and lifted.

_One. Two. Three. Four…_

Will kept counting. Even when he lost track. He felt each tick with the reverberation of stone jarring his wrists up to his shoulders and through the grinding of his teeth.

_…Twenty…twenty one…_

“…W-w-will…”

Lashes blinked slowly over blue eyes, shifting. Fading flames gazed back. The younger man looked down. He was crouched over a body. It was no longer moving. He wasn’t sure when it stopped. If it ever struggled at all. A blackened stone rested on the ground next to his knee. His gaze slid up to shaking hands. There was nothing. They were empty. Except for bits of broken bone clinging to a spine where a head once was.

“Oh Christ—“

Will dragged palms against his shirt, fervently at first and then more and more frantically. He fell back, bruising his hipbone. He tried to clean his hands. He tried to make them clean. He tried. He tried. He tried. He—

“W-william!” A trembling fist latched weakly on to his wrist, tugging insistently. “Please. P-please. Breathe.”

He went still, palm lifting to cover a weak cry, “H-h-hannibal, oh my god.”

The older man was barely recognizable except for his eyes. They were stark, piercing rubies in the night. Both rimmed in shades of hollow purple. Bruises and blood and welts covered more than half of his body. The half that could be seen beneath ripped seams and dirty cloth. He knew what lay beneath was worse. There was a red stain spreading across his chest. And the sound of breaking bones from before. That hideous, awful crack. They were his. They had to be his. He tried not to look too hard at a piece of white, stark and gleaming, from what he was sure was a broken femur.

_No, no no…no…_

Will swallowed down a sob as tears stung his eyes. How was he going to get them out of here if neither of them could walk? A hand reached out, fingers swollen and battered. He took it. Ebbing strength was ripped from him with a single sob, gushing out through the bullet hole in his side. He slumped against the fence. Hannibal twitched, dragging the hand to his mouth, placing a grimacing kiss against a wedding band. His mouth was warm with blood and faltering breath.

“H-hann…”

_I’m sorry._ The words lodged in his throat, ringing endlessly on a loop _. I’m sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry._

A timid whimper reached his ears.

Will’s entire body flinched, fingers clenching immediately to fists. Hannibal let out a plaintive groan. He was hurting him. He eased his grip, casting a tongue over swollen dry lips, staring at the spot the sound had come from with bated breath. Hoping he hadn't heard it. Hoping it wasn't real.

“G-go…” The older man whispered.

He shook his head, holding tighter as the rhythm of his heart picked up. _I won't leave you._

“Yes-s.”

He shook his head again, teeth chattering to keep quiet.

“Go, darling.” A single, crushing squeeze of a hand gave him enough strength. “Go to him.”

On hands and knees, Will shuffled toward the pitiful noise in the dark. He felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks. His right palm tapped tentatively in front of him, over dirt and stone and blood. He touched fur. He collapsed, sobs wrenching free.

_My entire world is in this alley…_

He dragged an arm around a cool, silky frame. Winston yelped.

_…and I can’t save them._

He jerked his arm back, bringing a fist down against the stone, screaming, “ _No_!"

Blurred softness reached his ears. “Bring him here, Will…to be together. As a family.”

Struggling to a crouch, Will slid hands under the dog lying limp on the ground, and cradled him close. Winston felt like nothing at all except breath and a cooling body. He whimpered softly with each jostling motion. Winston lapped at the wound on his chin as if to forgive him. He didn’t want to be forgiven. He didn’t deserve it.

_They deserve better than this._

The younger man slumped in a corner, lying the dog gently on a side next to him, head cradled in the crook of his thigh."Tell me, he'll be okay."

"I..." Eyes closed over a well of tears. "I-I wasn't quick enough...I'm sorry."

Will hissed obscenities, reaching for Hannibal and dragging him by shirt and skin between his legs and in to his arms. He began to shake, clutching on to both, staring up at a patch of stars. It was just shock of events setting in. It wasn’t the shock of his body making him cold. Shaking from loss of blood. It was just his nerves. The adrenaline petering out. What else could he tell himself? He was running out of conscious thought to form believable lies.

_We're just resting. We'll get up and go. We have to go. We can't stay here. And we'll be fine._

A sharp nose turned against his throat. “Run, Will.”

“I…” Will took a steady breath and held it. He ran a hand up an arm. He winced as Hannibal struggled to hide his pain. He felt the flinch of a cheek against his skin. “…can’t do that.”

“Go home,” Hannibal murmured, lips drifting up to his chin.

He held tighter, running hands through fur and silver strands, stroking tenderly, voice hoarse, “I am home.”

“Go home. To our house beside the sea and grow old with our dogs. To our family…” A gentle murmur pressed to his ear, melodic and threading. “Spare me a thought in the morning when you wake and one in the evening when your head comes to rest.” Hannibal turned Will’s face to look at him, trembling palm slipping from his cheek, and kissed him softly. “Live for me. Have a good life…”

His hands snapped fiercely in strands of grey, lunging forward and kissing the older man till the split in his lip throbbed to life, growling, “ _You_ are my life.”

“Must you…” Hannibal fell against him, heavy and breathless and straining to speak. “…be so head strong?”

“Must you piss me off with this last attempt at heroics?”

There was a long pause, a tormenting stretch of silence before a barely whispered plea. “Please.”

Will sucked in a breath of salty tears and screams welling in his lungs. He nearly crushed Hannibal against him, trying to block out the tingle of his muscles numbing as he grew weaker.

_We have to get up. We have to go._

“I’m where I belong. With you,” He answered finally, palm sliding to keep the older man’s head pressed to his heart. He sighed against silvery hair. “Aside from that, you don’t believe in divorce. So I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?”

A single, involuntary gruff laugh replied. “I suppose not.”

Blue eyes closed, frail smile curving lips. “…Thank you.”

“For?” He could hear confusion scrunching fine brows and wrinkling to a disapproving frown.

“Letting me pull you off a cliff.” Will tipped his face so he could gaze at Hannibal, gingerly stroking at tears leaking from unblinking eyes. “And subsequently…giving me the best years of my life.”

“I cannot…” The older man turned his face to stare at the ground, placing a larger palm over the one resting on Winston’s head. “…abide by goodbyes, William.”

The younger man stared up at the sky, choking down sob after sob, chest vibrating with mournful wails. Hannibal was struggling to sound sure, confident, calming even with both of them broken. As if at any moment their teacup would come together. He watched his wavering breath form icy trails and drift towards the heavens.

“I don’t want to lose you,” The words fell rough and bitter from his lips. "Maybe it's selfish. But death can't have you. You're mine."

“Will…” Hannibal struggled to sit upright, groaning.

“No. Hann, don’t—don’t—“

Palms framed either side of his face. He stilled, voice fading as soon as skin touched his. They were steady. Cool. Constant. A wavering smile filtered through the dark as tender as any touch.

Thumbs drifted after tears before Hannibal leaned in to kiss each quivering bead of light, maroon eyes staring at the frightened boy looking out from piercing gaze, voice a soft whisper against lips. “Tell me, Will… was all the boundless beauty of this fallen world etched in the runes of your bones and…” A quiver of pain wavered notes to low hum of quiet. “And…writ to shine through the light of your eyes from birth? Or have you merely allowed me the grace, the honor, and privilege to witness your radiance in the life we have shared? To let me love you all the same?”

They felt tremors beneath their tangled bodies rooted to the ground.

“God, please…” Will murmured, a fresh sting of tears welling eyes, lifting them upward and praying for the first time in his life to anything that would listen.

_Take us. Take us both. Just don’t…please don't. Don’t take him from me._

Tremors became an earthquake.

_Take my fucking heart as a sacrifice. What the hell do I need it for now anyway? It’s only ever been his. Have it pecked out beating in my chest for eternity, I don’t care, I don’t care. Just for the love of Christ, please let us die together._

“Will, look at me. Will.”

A fragile moan answered. “Not like this…”

_Anything but this._

Lightning flashed in the vision of searching bright orbs sweeping the alley. An earthquake of pounding boots became deafening. Hell’s mouth gleamed in streaking beams of red sweeping towards huddled figures. Crosshairs settled over hearts.

“Will.”

Will blinked, focusing on the soothing glow of candlelight and pressure against his cheeks, holding him steady, keeping him close, keeping him in the present.

“Look at me,” Hannibal repeated softly. Palms glided up, curving around his ears, blocking the corner of his vision. “Just me. Do you see me?”

Lifting trembling hands, Will gripped the front of Hannibal’s shirt, pulling closer until their foreheads touched to see him, to feel an echo. His heartbeat.

“I see you.” A strangled voice replied, “Just you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Waning strength pulled a small smile from lips. Hannibal pinned the corner of it in place to keep from unraveling completely. To keep from being fully seen. He didn’t want Will to see the chatter of his teeth from cold seeping through. Bitter like an icy wind clinging to decaying branches. It reminded him of endless winter. Of Mischa. And he nearly doubled forward from the weight of yet another soul he could not save, could not protect, resting in the destruction of his arms. All because he simply was not enough. A feeble bodied man of flesh and pooling blood. Weak and helpless. And undeserving. He didn’t want Will to see that.

_They will take you from me, my dearest one, and I will lose the only humanity I have left. I will lose you. A man cannot live without his heart._

Pulling at blood soaked clothes, Will brought him closer, reedy breaths rapid trails of white air warming his cheeks. He didn’t want him to feel the quaking of his limbs struggling to hold close as every nerve ending caught fire. Quiet rage set his teeth on edge. He didn’t want him to look down and see that the frail chest of the dog ceased to rise and fall. Will needed to see him. He didn’t want him to look away. There was no need to know the visage of death was nearly upon them. To end them. To tear them apart. And burn their lives together to the ground. There would be nothing left of them then. Except in their memories. Hannibal wondered if only torment waited for him now, after knowing and sharing what he had only hoped for, the years of his life with Will.

Hannibal lead a cursory path of fingertips over knitted brows, following faint scars then lips, each impression searing and painful. What if he never touched him in this life again? He didn’t want Will to find the glow of their dull beating hearts turning red as sniper beams appeared, one after the other. He kept his gaze steady and unwavering. He saw darkened shadows of men drawing closer, automatic rifles tipped and raised to fire. He was transported for a moment to the merciless icy ground of a forest floor with Mischa crying out to be saved. He could not save her. He could not save Will. He had yet again made promises he was incapable of keeping. Tears needled the corner of his eyes and he blinked them away. He would not let Will see the loss of him would kill far quicker and with less mercy than his physical wounds.

The older man shifted slightly, slowly, to drag his limp body protectively in front of Will. This was all he had left to give. A shield to catch a bullet before it ripped through his heart and then Will’s. He touched a thumb against a shimmering star forming in the corner of an eye. He stroked soothing circles against the rough grain of a scalp. He considered the wide, tremble of cobalt blue and bit down on the inside of his cheek. How small and vulnerable he looked without wild curls of an angel to protect his gaze. These eyes staring in his own begged too. His mask slipped completely, thrum of pain and weariness furrowing lines throughout his face. He felt infinitely tired, ancient, a worn out stony face of a statue bent at the knee to worship. He pressed the pad of a thumb to an erratic pulse. How the boy quaked in his arms, sensing a presence even before shadows cast over them. His gaze fell to a quivering bow of a mouth trying to remain pale and thin and fierce. He had no comfort to provide. Not a single word. Just a weakened hum of a blood choked melody rising from broken ribs, a lullaby his mother used to sing to soothe his nightmares.

Hannibal let lips touch feather light, closing his eyes when nails sank on his forearms to hold tight. They would pull the younger man from his arms and leave nothing but red welts for him to cling to after. Will began to silently shake, every inch of him a withering leaf clinging to the strength of a rotting oak. He tried to heal the texture of rose petals torn apart by fists and gravel, to envelope himself in the taste of cleansing rain, and feel the impression of the effervescent, of hope given to him one final time, against his skin. He took in a single, deep breath and held frail wildflowers frozen beneath snow in his lungs.

_You have given my life back to me, Will, when I had thought it had ended years ago. Now… I have sacrificed yours._

He held on. To each sensation. To each memory. To every single part of Will. Their lips slid apart in fevered breath of all they left unspoken. And it was torn from him.

*

Will’s eyes slipped open just enough to see wide blown pupils dilate to a halo of earth red. The silence, the ever present sound of Hannibal breathing, the beating of his heart, the quiet of his touch, the peace and safety he had grown accustomed to feeling all around him and in him, splintered a second later. The world ruptured in a roar of blunt screams.

“Get down! Down on the ground! Down on the ground!”

He was still reaching for Hannibal as his head slammed against the ground.

“Hands on your head! On your fucking head!”

A shrill shriek pierced his ears. His head throbbed.

Tattered leathery hands threw Hannibal against the cold ground next to him. A high cheekbone cracked against stone. Streams of blood seeped from the gash. From the corners of a mouth. It no longer offered a plaintive smile. It was slack and pale and red.

“H-hann—“ _Please don’t hurt him._

Will wanted to buck and twist and bite, fight for the visage of the man broken and bloodied and bruised lying limp next to him. He was barely able to raise his head. The mere effort left him winded, dizzy. His arm shook uncontrollably as fingers outstretched to touch blood, to touch skin, to touch Hannibal. To feel him. To take away the faint sparks of blistering pain registering on his face. Hannibal remained still. He didn't reach back. Darkening glazed eyes stared out through waves of rising sand and dirt, embers of light petering out one by one. Another kind of pain replaced it, mournful and desperate longing. He knew that look. He saw it under the halo of flashing scopes and lights, softened murmur drifting to him.

_I want you to know where you can always find me._

“D-don’t…” He choked out, clawing at sand and stone, to bring the older man back from retreating. “Please, don’t.”

Another blink and a vacant mask stared out at him. _Acceptance_. God, no. Will couldn’t feel him. He could always feel him. And now there was a deafening void. Nothing. Hannibal was cutting himself off, every emotion one by one, and it was like all the—

Ridges of a boot crushed his spine. His body flattened. “Stay down!”

—air was ripped from his lungs. His palm remained upturned in mere space between them, pleading, for one more stolen second. Instead time took back its possessions without mercy. His hand was wrenched behind his back in a burst of pain. A bite of zip ties followed. Would he ever hold Hannibal again?

His soul escaped in a feeble exhalation, begging.

A flinching cheek answered. Somewhere inside rooms, Hannibal still heard the echo of him.

*

The single wail seeping out from clenched teeth reverberated in Hannibal’s ears long after it stopped. Long after the shadow of his body left him and remained a pool of muddy crimson to lie with the fallen angel trampled beneath cruel boots. To seep towards a hand seeking his and wash over him in the last warm embrace he would offer. The monster in him howled to maim, to kill, to protect. There was nothing he could do to help him now. He was no longer able to move, let alone fight. He listened to it scream failure and bitter remorse. Bile burned the pit of his stomach. He forced his eyes closed to trap a well of brutal stinging tears. His useless, decrepit bones were hauled up right, rough hands digging underneath arms. Toes of his leather shoes left scuffed lines in the dirt as he was dragged away, a pitiful spineless thing, abandoning his life to the unknown.

He couldn’t look. He couldn’t see. Not again. Not when he was being lead away from the only person in his life who had given his meaning. Who had truly understood and accepted him. Not knowing if this would be the last time. If he would take his last breath or if…

Harsh lights grew brighter as a spotlight swung a swatch of white over him. “Get a move on. We have a deadline to meet.”

…if Will might take his. If he would survive what he loved… Hannibal curled fingers to fists, flexing against metal handcuffs rubbing wrists raw. His heavy head fell forward, silver strands clinging to a quivering mouth clenched between teeth. If he survived, he would not live for much longer after. He would make sure of it. He would not live without Will again.

Three sets of hands heaved him forward. His leg banged against an aluminum wall on the inside of a black van. Fresh broken bone left a bloodied mark. Burning heat flushed his body. Everything went dark.

*

Will clenched teeth hard. His jaw clicked and shook. His temples throbbed. Tears streaked through his vision trapped against the after images of where Hannibal once was. Beneath him in a flutter of ivory sheets painted gold by dawn and unhurried with gentle murmurs. Holding him close in the alcoves of a doorway. Bleeding out in his arms. Face down on the ground. Hauled toward the protective edge of flashlights. And then where he wasn’t. A void of blank space and a blur of faulty memory. He wasn’t there. Hannibal was gone. They had taken him. And he was gone.

His gaze shifted to a blur of wheat shimmering beneath a memory of an afternoon sun. Winston lay on the ground without them. Without Will. Shivering and alone. Except he wasn’t shivering. He wasn’t moving at all.

“W-winston…” Blood caked lips parted to call a little louder. “Winston. You have to get up, boy. You’ve gotta go. Run. Run for me.”

Watering brown eyes remained motionless, glazed beneath droplets of blood clinging to fur. Not a twitch of a leg or an ear. Not a single indication the dog even heard him. His heart lurched in his throat. The skin pulled tight over his ribs. He wasn’t breathing. Will couldn’t breathe. He just couldn’t. His stomach heaved.

Rolling up on a shoulder, Will vomited, choking and coughing and gasping against the ground. His ribs shuddered violently from a billow of trapped sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He rolled once more, forehead dropping to the crook of his beloved dog’s collar and prayed for suffocation. Prayed and then stopped all at once. His hands twitched at the place they were bound against his back.

 _Fuck you—_ The younger man buried his nose against blood matte fur, desperately trying to kiss his family goodbye. _Fuck you, you miserable cock._

He cursed the heartless fuck that had taken his family. The Almighty. The bludgeoned scum in the alley. The armed men surrounding him. It didn’t matter. They were all pieces of shit.

A burly man in a bulletproof vest hauled him up by the collar, hand trained on the hilt of a gun, an excuse away from putting another bullet in him. A lush stream of blood pattered against rolling ankles from the wound torn through his side. He wished he could give him the excuse and be done with it. Faint heat trickled over him in a wave of nausea. He heard the warmth of Abigail’s freckled smile all around him. Will nearly collapsed. Another hand jerked him forward. He stared at the lifeless body of his dog fading in the darkness of crates and a chained fence, twisting and fighting against a bruising grip dragging him down the alley.

“Wait, please wait! You can’t leave him like that! You can’t—you—for fuck sake, _please_!”

He was sure the screams he heard were in his head. He couldn’t speak. Not a sound. He was going to die. Alone. And Hannibal… had promised they would go together.

And now…

The cold muzzle of a gun jammed against his spinal column. Demonic snarls rose up from the depths of ash drifting free. He thought of Winston. Left to rot. Abandoned again on the side of a fucking road with no one to care for him. He tasted grisly black decay filling his mouth. He felt the crawl of maggots burrowing inside his skin.

He had nothing.

Will slumped forward, stumbling. A gloved hand caught him by the throat. Another latched in the scruff of his hair. He inhaled skin. His teeth slashed open a radial artery. A bullet thundered somewhere to his right.

Only blood and elements remained. And if time was merciful, he would become neither one. He would become nothing at all.

* * *

A thumb flicked an ashy cigarette, sending embers scattering against gleaming leather soles. “Somebody want to tell me what the hell happened here?”

“Sir—“ Two pairs of flashlights swung up.

“What?” The cigarette flicked away, hissing out in a pool of blood. “Never seen a ghost at a crime scene before?”

“Well, see, as a man of science—ow!”

“We just weren’t expecting to see you here.” Light rimmed blue green edges of a camera lens swinging around a neck. “Caught us off guard is all.”

“Which is, for all intents and purposes, what you’re looking at.” Teeth worried a narrow bottom lip nervously. “…The, uh, the bodies. Caught off guard? Not us. I didn’t mean us. Of course you’re looking at us. And we’re looking at you and—really, sir, I’m just surprised to see you. It’s been such a long—“

“Shut up. Jesus.” A cap clicked over the camera lens. “They never saw it coming.”

“So… an ambush?”

“By the position of the bodies and blood splatter…they saw it coming. I imagine it was a surprise none the less.”

“This is just an off the cuff thought, but it almost looks like the targets were the ones doing the ambushing.”

“Them. They saw _them_ coming.” A gruff voice corrected, supple cheek twitching as dark eyes surveyed what remained of strewn bodies lit by a rising sun. “Shit. Anybody got a light?”

“A light?”

“A lighter, not your damn judgment, for clarification.”

“I wasn’t judging…I was just…”

A metal zippo appeared between a latex covered middle and index finger. “Here.”

“Thanks.” A click set off sparks, flame glowing orange around a grimacing mouth, reply an exhale of smoke. “This his dog?”

“Yeah…” A softer voice answered before turning sharp with fury. “Looks like that piece of shit took a swing at him. Fingerprints are all over the bat. Fractured ribs. Punctured lung. Didn't stand a chance...the poor thing.”

“What happened to…” Bits of brain matter and shards of bone glittered. “Where’s the rest of him?”

“Bludgeoned. To tiny pieces. What he deserved.” Gloved fingertips moved soothingly over a forehead, down a snout, closing brown eyes. “But you didn’t, did you? You went down with a fight, huh boy?”

“Forget the dog.”

“I’m not leaving him here."

"God. You sound like him. A brutal crime scene full of bodies and all you can talk about is the damn dog."

"This dog is just as precious as the other lives taken! I’m…I’m taking him home. He deserves a proper burial.”

“Fine. Just-”

“Fine?”

A broad shoulder rolled forward, hunching over the bodies before rising. “Yeah. It’s the right thing to do.” The line of a cigarette pinched between thick lips. “And what about the other crime scene a few streets over? What do we know about that?”

“As much of a blood bath as this one.” Latex gloves snapped off. “It…it doesn’t look good.”

“For who?”

“For either of them.”

A fair hand pushed through grey hair clipped short and neat, sighing. “The fallen crowned eagles may become extinct after all.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that.”

“Why?” Fingers tugged a tie loose around a checkered collar.

“Because it doesn’t make any fucking sense. And we don’t need the press running off with it.”

“I generally don’t make a habit of sleeping with the press.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

The two men stared at each other, arms crossed.

“It makes perfect sense.” A pout formed. “Partners often perform striking visual displays when a pair comes together after an enduring absence, talons interlocking and falling through the sky. Secondly, some hunt in pairs. They passively stalk their prey from a distance before swooping in for a kill. Before crushing the bodies of their victims and then tearing them into tiny manageable pieces to carry back to their nests to consume over a longer period of time. Aside from that… you really shouldn’t question your superior.”

Fingers tapped irritation out on a navy sweater. “Prey.”

“What?”

“You said victims.”

“Well, from where I’m standing…”

Soles of shoes clicked over cobblestone. “Call me when you actually have something, would you?”

* * *

Hannibal jerked awake to the sound of Will screaming.

“Nn…Wi…ll…”

His tongue rolled heavy and thick in a dry mouth. His throat was raw. He forced eyes open. His body felt like a stone sinking to crushing depths. He couldn’t move. His gaze slid down the bridge of his nose and squinted. Thick leather straps bound his body to a steel table. Much to his chagrin it reminded him of ones they used in the BSHCI. If he wasn't there now, he wondered if he had the imminent pleasure of returning. He heard tires crunching over gravel. They were on the move. He stared at a paneled metal ceiling. More than likely the same nondescript van he had been thrown in to. It reeked of bleach and pungent sweat. Something was dripping. _Ping, ping, ping._ It was hideously too familiar. All it lacked was the refrigerated stench of slaughtered pigs.

Another scream. His right hand twitched against his thigh.

“Hold him still, goddammit! You wanna end up like Bennett! You saw what he did!”

“I’m trying! He’s just not—stay the fuck still!”

“He dies, we don’t get paid! Try harder!”

Stiff neck creaking, Hannibal let his head loll to the side. It felt weighted with burnt timber, mind muddled and distant inside a fog. A bandage scratched against his chest as he strained against leather to see. Two figures crouched over a table. They were backlit against a single halogen light clamped to a rail overhead. It buzzed and flickered with each bump of a winding road. Metallic supplies rattled on a rolling tray locked in place. A ghostly blue latex glove lifted in the light. Blood trickled down the handle of a gleaming pair of forceps. White gloved hands shifted from a torso stained red before jamming on struggling shoulders. Soaked sponges squelched on a moth eaten towel. A gurgling scream echoed. Something pinged before rolling across the floor. A bullet.

“You’re hurting him,” Hannibal croaked, fresh blood seeping from a forming split on his tongue.

The man on the right turned, dropping forceps to the table, green eyes flashing underneath magnified lenses. “I thought you dosed him.”

A shadow of the other turned, pupils dilating in the face of red glowing in the dark. “I-I did.”

“Not enough apparently.”

“Not enough! Christ, if I give him anymore I’ll _kill_ him.”

“Fine by me. I’d like to leave here with all my organs and limbs. Wouldn’t you?”

“Do you even have a conscience?”

“Dead or alive, remember? They don’t pay us for that.”

Hannibal’s gaze flicked to the table beyond, shoulder jerking against restraints, cheek flinching. Will was lying on his back, legs strapped to the table, both hands grey, bloodless, and gripping the edge hard enough the length of his arms shook. Sweat beaded across a chest, sliding down to join a thickening river of red. There was blood. So much. Spilling over the table with every turn of a wheel, dripping out of sight. Why was there so much blood?

_He should have clotted by now. Something is wrong._

A low growl rose from the hollows of lungs. “Why is he bleeding so profusely?”

“He was fucking shot, remember? Weren't you a doctor?”

_Once. Once. He was shot once._

There was too much blood. The older man closed his eyes and remembered the breadth and depth of the bullet wound. Thin, narrow. A small caliber round. A .22 maybe. It had still been inside him.

_He should have stopped bleeding by now._

Had he miscalculated?

Hannibal jerked against leather, white heat blinding his vision. “ _Answer the question._ Or so help me, I will rip out your fucking heart and force feed it whole to your friend.”

He saw a mouth tremble beneath a sterile mask. “I-it nicked his liver.”

The older man choked.

“And then, for good measure, we shot him again. Capped him right above the knee.”

“S-shut up, Anthony.”

“He murdered our friend!”

“Yes, but—“

“Tore his trachea and windpipe and vocal cords from his throat! Filthy fucking animal!”

He stared beyond the figures. A slim column of the younger man’s neck formed a tense arc, chin thrust up. Wet clung to the corners of thick lashes. White teeth clamped around a belt shoved in his mouth, wrapped around a head, held in place by zip ties snagged on a thin perimeter of a rail. The corners of his pretty mouth were bloodied from chaffing and struggling, gagging on each breath. A crude muzzle unfit for a rabid beast, let alone a man. Will was his. His to bind and render helpless. His to cut open and rearrange. His. Just his and no one else's to torment.

Someone snarled in the darkness. “Take. It. _Off_ him.”

“I don’t take orders from you!” A scalpel swung his direction. “And if you don’t shut up, I’ll take that cast off your leg and break it again.”

“Maybe we should—“

A fist crushed a forearm in mid air. “Touch it and I will have your damn license!”

“Remove it, this very moment. Or you will find it wrapped around your throat when I gut you open and hang you with it!”

A fluttering whimper of agony seeped out. Hannibal felt his lips peel away from glinting teeth, finding Will once more in the distance. Every breath exhaled flames. The younger man was shaking from head to toe, eyes squeezed shut, breath harsh and rasping against flared nostrils. He was entirely too pale. His eyes swung back to the doctor, narrowed slits of crimson. He was going to take the man apart. Inch by inch. And enjoy every fleeting second of it.

“Are you…” A thin bead of red formed on his bottom lip, savoring the pain. He hissed. “…operating on my husband _without_ anesthetic?”

A sneer flashed. “Seemed fitting. To cut and bleed dry an unfeeling monster.”

“Oh not yet…” Glowing coals flickered out. “But it soon will be.”

“And how’s that?”

"I am afraid our time for pleasant conversation has come to an end."

"Is that right?"

Hannibal smiled, uncoiling talons. “ _You bled the wrong monster_.”

An arm broke free. Hands latched on a starched white lapel and tore through skin. A scalpel sliced across a cheek. Over an eyelid. Someone shouted for help. The cries stopped as a body collided with a lamp. Glass shattered in bursts of sparking blue light. A table crashed to the ground. Instruments scattered. Flailing hands clawed across the floor, fingernails shredding. Feet kicked. Curved forceps ripped an abdomen open in a gush of blood.

It grew silent.

*

A plaintive gasp for air filled the van. Will opened his eyes to pitch black dark. He wasn’t certain if it was day or night. He had no idea where he was. How long had he been here? In this place. He only remembered something cruel and unyielding forcing his mouth open. Not being able to breathe. He touched his lips. Whatever it was had vanished. He remembered fingers and instruments digging in his wounds. He felt sick. Worse than before. He was lying in a pool of something cooling, sticky. It stung his nostrils. Blood. A lot of blood.

Where was he? His heart began to thud deep and heavy in his chest. Then he remembered hands, different hands, smooth and cruel bruising his hips and breaking across his face. A hideous sob died in his mouth. A sickening waft of bergamot and musk cologne seared his lungs. He tried to scramble away from glittering emerald eyes nearing in the darkness. His body wouldn’t move. Will flinched against the flurry of a needle piercing his skin. Something cold flooded in. He flexed numb fingers. He rammed a blunt palm into an eye socket.

“Sūdas!” A guttural shout rose.

“N-n-no!” The younger man’s fist connected with something solid. “You’re dead! You’re fucking dead!”

“Unn…mylimasis...”

Fingernails scraped across his scalp, hauling him forward by fine tips of his hair and flesh. Will kicked, flailing helplessly, sliding through viscous towards a nightmare waiting for him in the dark. He cried out as arms pinned him against a heaving chest, too weak to break free.

Hot breath flared over his eyelids in warning. “Have I not bled enough for you for one day?”

“Oh god…” A low moan answered.

Will pressed palms forward. He felt cold metal. Sweat dampened sheets. Rough leather. His fingertips followed its edge, tapping over buckles. He trembled above the cursory heat of skin before touching. Thick bandages wrapped around a torso half broken free from restraints. A thin hiss breathed out. He dragged thumbs up a contracting throat, over faint stubble, and drew them over thick lips arced in a snarl. He pushed against them. The mouth rippled defiantly before opening. Sharp edges of teeth snagged delicate skin on the pads of his fingers.

“H-hannibal,” Will choked out, winding fists in hair before crushing his mouth blindly on the one below. “God, Hannibal, I thought—“

He shoved his tongue inside heat and tore out a dark growl. He tasted like blood. And overwhelming heat. He tasted alive.

His eyes flew open, tearing his mouth free, eyes wide. "Christ, I hit you! Are you, are you hurt? Did I hurt you?"

"Not enough."

Twisting fingers pulled on his hair, scraping down the back of his neck. Hannibal bit at his mouth until it opened, tongue tangling with his, luring it out to suck and share the taste of his latest victims. The younger man moaned as teeth scraped over his bottom lip in a tug of skin. A rough palm planted against the center of his chest and shoved.

“Release me, Will.”

The younger man tore at leather straps and buckles furiously. How long had the older man been trapped that way? Half hanging off the side of the bed in excruciating pain? He peppered kisses across a face, murmuring one apology after another, in every language he knew. Each snap and jerk was followed by a swear. A hiss. A pained groan. Hannibal slid off the tipped table and fell on top of Will with another low groan, arm curling around ribs. He clenched teeth together to bite down a sob. The weight was unbearable. The wound in his side flared, sending sparks of pain flowing through his belly and down to the throb in his left thigh. Ragged breath panted against the curve of his ear. He knew whatever he was feeling was nothing compared to Hannibal’s wounds. He knew neither of them could move. He tried to keep still. To keep quiet. He couldn’t stop once he started to cry. Pitiful, short bursts of tears.

A palm curled around the back of his head, lips tipping to his cheek, hollow voice ringing clear. “I’m sorry, William. The pain should subside shortly. Then I will tend to your wounds. I have given you what I was able. It is…” A cheek flinched. “Will you find it within yourself to forgive me?”

“Don’t leave me, Hannibal…” He clung to wet fabric stretched over shaking shoulder blades. “Don’t leave me. I don't want you to leave.” 

“I have you.” Broken bones snapped fresh and clean. “I am here with you now.”

“P-p-promise me.”

“I…” A chest shuddered against his, cast scraping against metal. “I can’t, Will. It would be a lie. I vowed never to lie to you again. I cannot offer you another promise.”

The younger man let his hands slip free, spread palm up on the floor, growing cold and weak as something rushed through his blood and glazed his vision. His voice grew small, quiet. “Don’t let them take me. I don't want to go back. I want to stay here with you.”

Biceps and thighs shook around him, struggling to rise. Warm liquid dripped down the sharp peak of a nose, a salt puddle gathering in the crook of a neck below.

“He’ll hurt me. Don’t let him hurt me, Hannibal.”

“ _Will_ …” Hannibal’s voice pitched low as if Will was choking him, body thrashing violently in an attempt to move before going deathly still. “He is dead. He will never touch you again. Do you understand?”

“Please,” Will begged, wide tear filled blue lifting to stare at the corner of darkening eyes. “I can’t go through that again. I won’t. I won’t.”

“Will.” Strength cracked on wavering notes. “You have to calm—“

He hammered a single fist against a chest, ugly sobs wrenching free, struggling to breathe. Drowning in the darkness. Of the crushing weight of the man he loved. Suffocating on the stale air of blood and bile and bleach. Slowly dying as memories buried deep returned, flash burns against his brain, scars reigniting over his body. His hits grew weaker, erratic, as something crawled through his system, body becoming numb even as his mind screamed.

“I’ll kill myself first. I promise, I promise. I won’t—“

Will gasped as a flexing forearm gouged his windpipe, shaking, shoving in. He clawed at shoulders, bucking wildly. He stared up at darkness shifting in shadows. He felt tears splash on his cheeks from above, drops of salt rolling into an open mouth, unable to utter a sound.

“Forgive me, Will—“

Cresting desolate waves roiled over him, inky black and sweeping him away.

“—I love you.”

*

Gritting teeth, Hannibal collapsed on his side and spit out a thin aluminum penlight he had clenched between teeth. An uncapped bottle of antiseptic sloshed and tumbled to the other edge of the van. He pitched a set of gloves and sterile bandages after it. Disgust bloomed in the pit of his stomach. Given his appalling working conditions and unsteady hands, he could have either just saved Will or killed him. The dawn would come. He would know then. He shouldn’t have killed the doctor. It was reckless. Impulsive. He should have held him on the other end of a blade and forced him to save the younger man. He slammed a swollen fist against the floor, snarling in the dark. He was letting emotion cloud his judgment. His utter lack of control was going to kill them both.

Pain blotted behind his eyes. He touched his ribs. At least four were broken. The rest bruised. He watched each press flash white like lighting before fading. He had caught his reflection in the metal tray spinning on the floor as he strangled the smaller man. He had to look again. He didn’t recognize who it was at first. More beast than man. All fangs and spit and claws. He looked hideous. Covered in gashes, welts, and broken blood vessels pooling around vivid bruises. What ever made him think he would be able to protect Will?

“Pathetic,” He spit out, digging fingernails against the cast on his leg.

A tiny moan was muffled by a curl of fingers. He dragged eyes from the ceiling, casting them around the van. He had lost the syringe of morphine somewhere in the struggle. He cursed. He would have to search for it now. The penlight rattled in the well of the double doors. He closed his eyes, teeth clenched, growling. There was absolutely no excuse for his carelessness. If the needle broke Will would be in agony for the duration of their forced journey. From his physical wounds. From the nightmares coming alive in his mind once more. The younger man would be stuck with the stench of two dead bodies and a growing resentment of the man who could not care for him as he needed. And he would have to endure every torturous second of his cries and pleas.

“H..ann…”

Hannibal curled up on his side, resting all his weight on broken bones, and drew Will against his chest. He wrapped both arms around him. He curled his good leg over a hip to mold their bodies together. He kissed soft wisps of hair clinging to the nape of a neck. His skin was cool. A fever had not yet taken hold. His fingertips tried to smooth brutality from the younger man’s throat. What else was he going to do? He couldn’t stand that sound. A feeble human noise vibrated in his chest. He could endure anything but that sound. So frail and helpless and pleading for Hannibal to do _anything_. To save him. To set him free. To keep his promise.

“You should have fled! Run for your life! You should have never come looking for me.” The older man growled, shaking the limp body in his arms. “Why must you never listen! Foolish, selfish boy! I nearly destroyed you once. You should have stayed away. I should have driven you far from me. What could you possibly have seen in me?”

Teeth clamped down on the tip of a tongue. It was too late. A wracked sob of guilt scraped up his throat. He crushed Will against him, face buried in the slumped seam of a shoulder, and began to weep.

“Why, Will?” His mouth trembled over the thrum of a weak heart beat. “Why did you have to choose me?”

* * *

The back doors of an unmarked van hung open on the side of an abandoned stretch of road. The driver’s side door was ajar. Keys still in the ignition. No one was inside. Yellow tape wrapped around thick evergreen trunks, criss crossing the scene enveloped in red and blue flashing lights.

“Mother in Heaven.”

Dried blood caked the inside of the windowless van. It covered a metal table and soaked through a set of sheets on a thin foam table tipped on its side. One rubber wheel creaked eerily with each gust of wind. A body of a young blonde resident was crumpled against a wheel well, paper mask askew, eyes frozen wide open with a sickly stare of horror. Grey bruises ringed his thin neck. His chest was a gaping hole of black and red.

A camera flashed. “I’m not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed.”

“Are you praising this sick fuck, right now?” A meaty fist balled up a seam of a white lab coat. “With a man’s body hanging not three feet from you with his guts spilling out and organs jammed in his mouth. The other cut open and harvested for parts. What? Do you need a closer look to regain your humanity?”

In the center of the van, a body was posed. A doctor sitting with legs bent to kneel. His neck was strung up by a belt, leather smattered in teeth marks. Scraggly brown hair hung over a forehead pushed forward in submission or prayer. Coils of intestines glittered, spilling and swaying inside an open mouth. His lab coat was buttoned precisely over a wide spread of dried blood. Chest hollowed out beneath. His hands were placed palm up in his lap, fingers curled and gently spread, cupping two bloodied hearts.

“He’s seriously injured from the looks of these drag marks. Maybe a sprained ankle? Broken leg?” Gloved hands pointed to rough uneven swaths on the floor. “Lost a lot of blood. Or someone has.”

A camera rose, button clicking, a serious of flashes going off. “Assuming this is most of their blood then they both have. He shouldn’t be alive. This takes…serious motivation.”

“I should have your ass pulled from this case ri—“

“He does have a point.”

"Thank you."

“You want to join him!” A roar fogged up dark lenses of sunglasses.

“Listen!” Latex squeaked inside shaking fists, docker boots scraping before swinging around and striding towards the yellow middle line of the road. “This is something we haven’t seen before. If he was conscious long enough to do this, then he should have escaped. He should have ran like the last time and disappeared. But he didn’t. He stayed and left us this goddamn tableau. This is fucking righteous indignation and rage. None of his crime scenes ever had emotion before. They have only ever held aesthetic commentary. This isn’t a visual dissertation. This is a hail mary. A fucking prayer. An apology if there ever was one.”

“Why!” A gold Rolex flashed, hand digging inside a breast pocket and drawing out a crumpled box of cigarettes. “Why bother after all these years?”

A thin mouth pinched, light eyes surveying the scene, scribbling notes on a chart, quietly answering. “Don’t we all build altars to the ones we love?”

“He doesn’t love Will.” Acrid smoke burned the back of a throat. “He isn’t _capable_ of love.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dark eyes narrowed, thumb jamming on the camera. An image flickered on. A cropped shot of clean patches of white forming two crescent shapes with blood around them. “Because I look at this and see the bloodied outlines of bodies holding one another, sleeping side by side, beneath their victims to be together a few moments longer. I never fucking liked Will, but even I can see that.”

“Bullshit.”

A hand shot out, snapping the cigarette in half and crushed it against gravel with a heel. “He’s _changed_ , Jack. Haven’t you?”

“Then tell me, Z…” The agent’s black eyes rose, sneering. “Where in the hell are they?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :whispers: Someone hold me. ; ;
> 
> Just rip our hearts out, why don't you? You heartless, heartless, writer. Oh wait... that's me. Dammit. Oh, jeez, uh what to say about this chapter? I mean, can you even speak or write right now? Or are you just hemorrhaging gouts of blood in a corner somewhere?
> 
> As you can see I'll be using * * * to format POVs other than Hannibal and Will's from now on. The return of Sassy Team Science and Jack. That's never a good sign. Even if they are several steps behind. Where did they even come from? Have they been tracking them this whole time?
> 
> Throw your wild speculations (and cups of scalding hot coffee) my way. Where are Hannibal and Will? Who has them? Is anyone else's heart breaking?
> 
> I'm gonna go put a dunce cap on my head, sit in a corner, hang my head in shame, and atone for the things I've put us through. (Or try. Because I just don't think there's enough atonement in the world for this.)


	3. Chapter 3

The air was stale. Windowless dark, damp and heavy. Sage moss crawled from the floor to a high arced corner, fueled by a steady _drip, drip, drip_ of water. The only indication of life outside four grey cinder block walls. A turn of seasons. Rain. Long stretching shadows shuffled underneath the crack of a steel door at all hours, bringing muffled moans of pain and protest before ebbing away. Twice a day, a slot would creak open and an aluminum tray clattered to the cement floor. Then inconstant stretches of time with nothing.

Hannibal watched plumes of grey breath rise, shifting a threadbare wool blanket around his torso. He was beginning to have difficulty keeping track. Of time. Of sounds. Not knowing if soft whimpers drifting through a slotted grate high on the wall were real or part of his imagination. The first thing to greet him after surfacing from unconsciousness was the buzzing static of lights. The second a large needle pulling out of his arm. Antibiotics and something else. It made him feel muddled. Dull and fading. Whatever it was masked his pain. His senses. But not his mind. He wished it dulled his mind. It remained in tact, a churning tide of racing thought and unfiltered emotion. It was screaming.

He ran a thumb over blistered and scabbed fingertips. His knees were bruised and aching. He had crawled on hands and knees every lucid moment he woke to, cast dragging after him like a deadened weight. Feeling his way across dust and moss. Tearing at every crack in the floor or crumbling brick. He searched for anything, any way out. There had to be something. There never was. No matter how many times he groped and clawed and muttered a plea. His pathetic attempts ended the same. Panting in pain, curled on his side next to a metal toilet and a dripping sink, bloodied fingertips pressed to his lips to keep from crying out. The hours seemed longest then, before he blacked out in agony and woke to watering eyes of shame, grateful for the needle in his arm before it all started again.

Bile and churning guilt burned his stomach. He should have been merciful when he had the chance. And he knew. Felt the shift inside his bones shudder through each plaintive breath seeping through bricked walls. They should have bled out. They should have gone together like he promised. In the end, he was single minded, selfish, unwilling to let the man he loved die without trying to save his life. He should have let him die. He simply _knew_. They were both fucking alive. He had failed. And Will was beside him. Confined to a prison cell once more by his own hands. Allowing all he loved to vanish from his arms, kept against his will by yet another unknown nightmare. He bit open his bottom lip in punishment, hissing quietly at the sting. What kind of man was he?

_An unworthy one. You would rather make him suffer than allow him to free himself from you._

“H…ann…ibal?”

He gripped the ratty mattress, knuckles draining from grey to white. The bed frame rattled. He was shaking. He screwed eyes shut and held his breath until his lungs burned. Not that sound. Anything but that voice. Not his voice. Not here.

“H….H-Hannibal?”

He counted each second. _One. Two. Three…five…ten…fifteen._ Quiet. Will wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. It was a nightmare. A hallucination. His mind conjuring up a familiar sound of comfort. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t—

“Oh god, please…” A rasping croak echoed to the scrape of a palm dragging down the adjoining wall. “Please, no. Not again.”

Hinges creaked. Growing louder and louder. A sob tore through the darkness. Hannibal covered his ears, staring blankly up at the ceiling, blood pooling in his mouth and running down his chin. If he didn’t say anything, maybe it would stop.

“Not real. Not real. Wake up.”

He couldn’t hear this sound again. The screeching wails of the dead. He saw flashes of Will bent over a body, teeth tearing out tendons and arteries of a man’s throat, feral and battered and on the verge of death.

“H-how could you? Why couldn’t you just kill me, Hannibal! For god sake, why!”

He worked a hand around his neck, struggling to breathe. How could he let this happen? If he had been a better man…How could he do this to Will? His Will. His beautiful blue eyed boy. He would never survive this. Neither of them would. His cries. It was too much.

“Here,” Hannibal choked out, spray of blood matting his face and hair. He rolled to his side and coughed, clutching at taped ribs. Spit and blood dripped to the floor from a quivering bottom lip. “I’m here. Can you hear me?”

He pleaded for only silence to answer.

Cries ebbed to soft whimpers, thick rasp asking, “Where are you? Are you…are you alive? Are you real? Or am I losing my mind again?”

The final question knotted his stomach. He knew what was waiting for Will. The physical confinement wouldn’t take Will. He would be caged by time, forced to dwell inside his mind. His inner demons would take him, one by one, until there was nothing left. Soul pecked away from the inside out, leaving nothing but a shell. Hannibal would bear witness, helpless to contain it, unable to spare him from a far worse fate than before. The older man fell back on to the cot, bleary eyed and faint. He scrubbed at thickening stubble on his chin. He lifted a fist and beat it once against the wall.

“You…” He could hear shoulders sagging, either in relief or disappointment, palms searching the wall in darkness. “You’re alive.”

The older man bit on his tongue, but it was too late, icy resentment spilling out. “So it would seem.”

“Did you… choke me out in the van or did I imagine it?”

“I did.”

“You did.” Will repeated the statement slowly. And then he laughed. It was tinged with hues of marbled regret and blurred by faint resentment. “Of course you did.”

His jaw tensed, cheek twitching, words hissing out between teeth. “There were no other options available to me. You were in a state of increasing agitation. The panic and loss of blood were too taxing in your weakened condition.”

“You’ve had a lot of time to justify this in your head, haven’t you?”

“I would not reverse time and act any differently,” Hannibal snapped, digging fingernails over bandages.

“That’s a first,” Will countered dryly.

“I beg your pardon?” Hannibal sat up, swinging legs over the cot and glared at a brick wall, seething.

“I’m… I’m not…” The mattress creaked wearily as a body lowered. “Hell.”

He closed his eyes and listened to measured breathing. He saw Will clearly. Perched on the edge of the cot, knees spread wide, feet firmly planted defensively against the floor. His hands would be clasped to keep them from shaking. His slender neck would be bowed, head hanging, eyes closed.

“I was at peace with you crushing out my last breath. I had hoped to finally find some solace in this life,” A soft confession drifted through the grate, knuckles grazing bricks.

Was Will imagining he was touching the side of his face, his cheek, his neck?

_Did you not once find solace in our life together?_

“Why the fuck are we still alive?”

Struggling to a sitting position, the older man pressed his spine to the wall, imagining he could feel the heat of skin. He wanted to hold his hand. Touch the frown lines of his mouth. All those years, of carefully placed touches and brushes of skin, to foster Will’s need to find comfort solely in him. How would Will survive without it now? In the beginning, he had seen agony tumbling from blue skies and everything in his entire world tilted on its axis. Then it was no longer a means of manipulation. He felt responsible for every single torment Will had experienced, even before him, drawing out a single minded desperation to take it all away. Silently offering to kiss his mouth and breathe for him. To gather the weight of wearied loneliness to his chest and carry it for him. He had never known his life was empty before the younger man. Until it was filled with endless waiting, aching, for even a glimmer of Will needing him in return. Blood and moonlight had granted him both.

“Death seems to find perverse pleasure in eluding us.”

With patient practice, he had taught Will to seek comfort in releasing control, carefully tethered to keep from recoiling from his touch. To trust in the quiet power he offered with a brush of his fingertips. Now it was gone. Neither of them in control. A free fall. His only fear the moment they slipped off the cliff was losing his grip on the shuddering bones finally, finally resting against his. Hideous jagged rocks were waiting. This would be their end. They would both reel from the loss of each other. And he had nothing to hold on to keep either of them safe. His mouth trembled, fingers curling, crushing an imagined hand in his. They had lived in separation before, with walls and doors and miles of mistrust between them. But Hannibal had always been able to break down those doors and cage Will to him, in spite of protests and pleas, because he needed to. And no matter how much Will sobbed not to be touched, he needed to know Hannibal would give his life to protect him. But he couldn’t reach Will. Not this time.

_Who will protect you now, William?_

“I…” Wavering blue flitted through the darkness, lashes fluttering. “…didn’t want to wake up.”

Hannibal hunched forward, drawing a knee to his chest, watering eyes ground against it. “I…prayed you wouldn’t.”

“No you didn’t.”

He closed eyes against a fresh sting of tears and held his swollen tongue.

_No, Will, I did not pray for your death. I never have._

Silence stretched around them. The younger man let out a heavy sigh. Fingernails scraped through blunt strands of dark hair.

“Do you have any idea where we are?”

Hannibal blinked, corner of a mouth twisting down. There was a small note of hope in those words. Faith left in Hannibal. Looking to him for answers. A knife wrenching in his back to expose his sheer inadequacy to help either one of them. He dug a fingernail beneath his wedding band, scraping at its surface. He had wed Will to a death sentence.

A rabid animal broke free through his teeth. “Apart from the most obvious guess given our current surroundings…I might suggest prison.”

“I meant…” Hurt glimmered in shadows.

_Hate me, William, and find another reason to live. To leave._

Fingernails clawed at wounds, red spreading across bandages. “I know what you meant.”

“Christ, I’m sorry!”

He bit his mouth into a sharpened edge and plunged it in a heart. “I’m not.”

“I…” Mattress springs whined as the younger man turned his back to the wall, knees drawn up to a chest, arms slung around them. “Fuck it. Never mind.”

*

Three miserable fucking days of unbearable silence. Will felt like his lungs were going to catch fire from holding in all the things he wanted to say, to scream, to whisper. He had never wanted to be put in a drug induced coma more. He would pay good money for someone to knock him unconscious.

_I love you. I want to bury my hand in your chest, clamped around your heart, until you are begging for me to never let go. I need you. I hate you. I hate you for making me need you. I want to suffocate you with nothing but my mouth._

Listening to Hannibal breathing, shifting, moving, alive on the other side of a goddamn wall was torment. He hated it. Hated the chaff of his cast hobbling across the floor, grunting softly in pain. Hated his labored breathing in sleep. Hated being able to picture every single moment in vivid detail when he closed his eyes. Goddammit, aversion therapy and torture had been less painful than this. At least then he was alone. Only tormented by the creations of his imagination. Even they had the good conscious, the courtesy, to leave him in peace eventually.

Will should have been taking care of Hannibal. It was his right, as a man, as a husband. The older man was barely breathing the last time he had seen him. He should be there. Beside him, even if Hannibal didn’t want it. No longer wanted him. He shouldn’t be alone. He should never have walked away in the first place. And now this. Enduring this separation. His teeth glittered through a thickening beard, limbs jerking at the sensation of Hannibal asleep and draped over him. All the years of isolation. Pained by fleeting comfort. A bubble of bitter laughter stuck in his throat. He had spent so much time without human connection, mere touch dispelling a constant ache, trying to convince himself he didn’t need it. Didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. Only to be pursued by a craving he could never satisfy. And then Hannibal had gifted him with a gnawing hunger, consuming his insides, killing him slowly. Falling into his arms was agonizing, realizing Hannibal had been offering comfort and affection all along. He had slowly learned to accept the hands that tore his life apart were the same ones holding the tangled threads of him together, warm, safe, and sinking into his wounds to caress the scars they had left.

The ache was returning. How was he going to go back to an empty existence after Hannibal had kept his hunger at bay? Did Elias and Peter know they had gone missing? Would they learn to forget them?

The familiar emptiness bothered him most at night. Or at least, he thought it was night, when exhaustion pulled his eyelids closed. And his thoughts were replaced with dreams, gentle moments of their lives inside a home they would never see again. Will lay on the floor, curled in a musty corner. It was the closest he was physically able to be with Hannibal. The cot was bolted to the floor. And even if it hadn’t been, he was too weak to move it. So he stayed where he was. Huddled under the blanket, teeth chattering from cold as the drugs in his system weakened, palm pressed to stone. He couldn’t stand it. Knowing the older man was there on the other side. Refusing to speak to him. The only disturbance to their routine of blatantly ignoring one another was the scrape of trays through slots littered in indecipherable food.

He grit his teeth. He knew how he would have handled it back home. How he had handled it when Hannibal had been forced to let Will care for him, confined to bed rest in the middle of the ocean, where he couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t ignore him. Couldn’t escape. Will nestled his forehead against a wrist and thought of all the hours they bickered leading to this exact kind of silence that made his body ache for a single touch. He wished they were fighting now. Screaming at the top of their lungs. He just needed to hear his voice. God, he didn’t want to be here. He thought of the older man’s prized possessions, the thin box of pencils he had pitched overboard out of spite and frustration.

_“Is it a wounded bird you long to crush instead of a predator to contend with, Will? Does it please you to know I must simply accept whatever whimsy you bestow upon me without a fight? Knowing I alone am at your mercy?”_

They were probably rusted and decayed by now. He wished he and Hannibal had joined them, bodies swept away in a current, buried underneath shell and sand, rotting inside each other’s arms. Why did they have to end up here?

Hannibal was reverting to basic survival instincts he hadn’t seen since the older man left a carnage of bodies in his wake to bring him home. What was left of him anyway. He had wanted nothing to do with Hannibal for months. And when he had, he realized his blatant avoidance and pushing away was slowly killing them both.

_“I ceased to exist the moment you were taken from me. I have died every day since....”_

He knew how to deal with it then. Muscle him into a corner of a shower and make the older man face him. Look at him. Fucking answer when he called out in a daze of sleep, _are you still there? Say something. Say anything. Please._ Back then he would have made him listen, cornered in the kitchen, instead of slinking away or groveling in self pity. How in the hell was he going to deal with this? With Hannibal? Licking his wounds and trying to pretend he didn’t need help. Didn’t need Will in the middle of the night like Will needed him.

_“Why are we not allowed to speak about what has been done to you? About what I… let happen to you?”_

Hollow eyes smudged in dark flickered against his irises, weak and giving up. Will shook his head to free himself from the memory. They weren’t going to make it. This was worse. So much worse. He tugged knees tighter against his chest, chasing after thinning air. Hannibal was never going to say he needed him ever again. Not if he blamed himself. Not if it meant acknowledging the grief and loss. Will was putting him through hell all over again. Both of them were going to burn.

“Tell me, Will…” A rough ache reached ears. “How are you faring?”

Will sucked in a sharp breath and held it. He trembled with the effort not to cry as a pang of relief shook through him. It hurt.

“Been better…” Will managed a shaking reply. His throat was sore from not speaking. “I miss you.”

A spoon clattered angrily to a tray. “Please, Will.”

_Please, what! I fucking miss you. Am I not allowed to say it anymore?_

Dragging the blanket off his shoulders, Will rocked up to knees and hurled it to a corner. His flash of fury settled to the ground with it. He lay a palm over the bandages on his side and pretended it was Hannibal. Hannibal touching him. Hannibal soothing his aches. Hannibal reassuring him in his voiceless way that everything would be alright. They would be alright. Even if they weren't.

Blue eyes flicked to the wall. “Are you eating?”

A grunt of confirmation replied.

“Enough?” The younger man let his head fall against clenched fingers, touching his own protruding ribs.

“Enough for my physiological functions to maintain,” Hannibal answered. He could hear his mouth twisting, etched in pain and rage. “Though I might prefer the gnawing pain of my insides consuming themselves to whatever passes as edible here. The irony is not lost on me.”

He winced, muttering, “Sorry.”

A fist slammed against the wall. “Stop fucking apologizing, William, I am not looking for your pity!”

“I wasn’t…” Will breathed the words, afraid to be heard, staring at specks of a crumbling ceiling floating around him, eyes wide.

“Were you not!” A terse growl violently shook through him.

“I-I wasn’t. Fuck.” He let his head fall back, drawing his bottom lip between teeth, searching for anything to say, to dampen the slight warble in his tone. “I just—“

“What? Tell me. Please.”

Will opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. He looked down at his hands. They trembled. His heartbeat quickened. His stomach clenched. His palms began to sweat. He shuddered.

_Not now. Not now. Come on, come on, breathe. Just breathe._

He was on the verge of a panic attack.

“Answer me, William!” Hannibal snarled. “Do try not to sound like a kicked puppy when you respond.”

The blow of his words connected in a sickening crunch.

“F-fuck—“ The younger man doubled over, falling to his knees, one hand clenching his stomach, the other holding him up, arm shaking. He had tried so hard not to think about it. To think about anything else. “Why, Hannibal?” Tears burned down his face, teeth clenched. “Why…why would you bring that up? God, fuck you, and your goddamn instinct to hurt anyone who even tries to love you. Isn’t this enough to suffer through? Haven’t you done enough to me? Have I not lost enough to make us even, you vindictive son of a bitch!”

“Do you not think…” Raw emotion seared his skin hot and then red, controlled violence shaking free to dismantle the last pieces of him remaining, to topple Will, until he lay in ruins. “I am keenly aware of every pained sigh and breath you take? How I wake to your screams and crying in the middle of the night. Do you not think I know the fault lies with me? You are hurt because of me. You nearly died because of me. _I_ took your family! Your friends! _I_ murdered your child! _I_ let them beat your dog to death. I am solely responsible for your suffering!”

Will jammed knuckles against teeth, forehead bent to cement. The shaking was uncontrollable now. He saw Winston’s dead eyes staring out at him in the dark. He saw thick fur sliding away to reveal gaping eye sockets and white of a fractured skull. He saw Abigail beyond him, sinking in an ocean of blood. The profile of his best friend stood in pieces beyond them both.

“You tell me why you would have any desire to love the threat of a nightmare! You ought to have put a bullet in my brain when you had the chance!”

“I don’t—“ The younger man swallowed rising bile over and over again, shaking fingers flattening. He had to focus. To breathe. “I don’t feel well. Please. Stop yelling.”

Something metal flung across the room and crashed into a wall. Will jumped, curling into a tighter ball as the older man’s voice pitched to a terrible scream.

“You are here with me in this godforsaken pit of hell, yet again, because I had to have _my_ way! Had to have _you_. Convinced myself I needed you. And nothing else.”

Glass shattered. A mattress over turned, crumpling in a corner. Will dragged his body across the cement floor, trying to escape the raging storm crashing down around him. It was deafening. He felt every word slam in to him. He could feel Hannibal shaking. The rage. The frustration. The guilt. The razor edge of glinting teeth tearing open their old wounds. A suffocating helplessness clawed at his lungs. His. Or Hannibal's. It didn't matter.

“And now my selfish, thoughtless inability to control the very emotions I prided myself on never feeling again, to maintain discipline, has chained you to me. I put you here! I have caged you yet again. _I_ did this to you!” Cracking knuckles rammed into an aluminum sink. “You were better off having never met me!”

Nails latching on an edge of a toilet, Will hauled himself forward. His stomach heaved. He flushed hot. He was violently ill a second later. He rested a cheek against a metal rim, after shocks wrenching through him. Tears leaked in a steady stream through closed eyes. The silence had returned. He could hear the audible broadcast of Hannibal breaking.

Will wanted to hold him. Hannibal wanted to die. Wanted Will to move on and find some fucking meaningless existence without him. To sacrifice himself and make it all go away somehow. They would die together. Slowly. Painfully. Desperate until a moment before they drew their last breaths. Hannibal just didn’t know it yet. Will brought a fist down, denting a side of the sink. Pain splintered up his arm. He had spent too long relying on the older man’s calming constancy and show of strength. He would rather him dead than broken.

Feet shuffled, balance teetering, before the older man collapsed somewhere inside his cell, near hysterical moans muffled, “ _Aš atsiprašau...mylimasis_...my light. My life. _Ką aš padariau? Jūs esate sužeistas. Jūs esate sužeistas. Aš jums pakenkti. Aš visada tave skrzywdzić._ I don’t deserve you. _Likti nuošalyje nuo man, Will. Prašome pamiršti, aš net egzistuoti_.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Will snarled, the sentiment of each word clawed at his bleeding heart. He knew Hannibal was making some goddamn confession to him in a language he had yet to understand. He spit venom and fury. He dragged a wrist over his mouth. “Close your goddamn mouth right now. _Stop._ Just stop. Can you do that? Can you manage to shut your mouth for a single second!”

_For me. Can you do that for me? Because I can’t take this. You giving up on me._

“You cannot be here, Will,” Hannibal choked out weakly. “You cannot be here with me.”

The younger man stared blankly at a distorted reflection. He could taste the older man’s tears. The vibration of suppressed sobs hidden in another cell gutted him open. He was trying so hard to regain control for them both, to show Will he could be strong for them both.

“I don’t want you here. I needed you to run. Why, darling, why could you have not abandoned my side and lived?”

_God, you’re going to kill me. Don’t. Just...Christ, shut up. I’m begging you. I can’t have this conversation with you again._

“I don’t want you here either…” Will released a faint breath, head tipped back as he slumped against a sink. He was still shaking. He wasn’t sure it would ever stop now. Not without Hannibal to make it stop. Every single word he offered was pointless and inadequate. “At least we’re together. You know I’m right here. And I love you.”

“You love me…” There was a distant noise of distress, Hannibal choking on his own blood as if Will had wrenched his very heart from his chest and crushed it in front of him. “ _Dievas. Kodėl_?”

"Yes, I fucking love you. I chose you! I married you. Is that alright? If you wanted to be rid of me so badly then you should have finished the job in the van!"

“Please, Will, show mercy.” It was barely a whisper. A plea. Hardly anything at all except a man’s weak, dying breath. ”I cannot bear the echo of your voice inside these walls.”

Blue eyes slipped to watering corners, watching dispassionately as limbs began to quake viciously. “…Fine.”

_This killer wrote you a poem. Are you going to let his love go to waste?_

Hannibal was right. He was always right. It was a fucking waste. He should have cherished it more, so much more, somehow. Will had lost Hannibal, his Hannibal, the moment he let go of his hand. He tried to find comfort in knowing he would have been nothing without the older man, less of a person for having never known him, still craving an acceptance never to touch him. They all rang hollow. Will was going to die loving Hannibal either way.

Death would have been a far less cruel mistress than Fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nooooo, I don't want to go through this again! Everyone is hurt. And I hate it when they fight. Someone wrap them both in blankets, especially Hannibal. Where is that plush toy Mae gave me? I need it.
> 
> *  
> Rough Lithuanian Translations:
> 
> “Aš atsiprašau...mylimasis...my light. My life. Ką aš padariau? Jūs esate sužeistas. Jūs esate sužeistas. Aš jums pakenkti. Aš visada tave skrzywdzić. I don’t deserve you. Likti nuošalyje nuo man, Will. Prašome pamiršti, aš net egzistuoti.”
> 
> (I'm sorry...beloved...my light. My life. What have I done? I hurt you. I hurt you. I always hurt you. Stay away from me, Will. Please, forget I even exist.)
> 
> “You love me…” There was a distant noise of distress, Hannibal choking on his own blood as if Will had wrenched his very heart from his chest and crushed it in front of him. “Dievas. Kodėl?”
> 
> (God. Why?)


	4. Chapter 4

_“You do realize at some point you are going to be forced to surface for air…”_

_Hannibal sighed, shifting slightly with a creak of leather in a wing backed chair. A fire crackled in the hearth, left unattended to hiss upon ashy wood logs. He gazed up at a water stain on the ceiling, index and forefinger tapping out a quickening rhythm on a midnight navy silk pocket square tucked in a breast pocket. His eyes strayed to rain clinging to glass French doors. Beyond them water streamed down a steel ladder balanced against a side of the house, abandoned for more earthly pursuits._

_“…and when you do, I will be waiting for your answer.”_

_The older man’s gaze slid with the rain. His eyelids grew heavy, staring through a thicket of fair lashes. His fingers drifted the nape of slender neck, blunt nails swirling cropped waves of dark hair. A curious glimmer of blue lifted. His breath hitched quietly. Long fingers flexed on soft flesh above his hips as a flat edge of a tongue licked the length of his cock._

_“While I truly appreciate…” His measured voice came out breathless and faint. A far cry from poised and stern he had intended. “…your valiant return to tried and true methods of distraction and avoidance, I am going to have to insist on finishing our discussion.”_

_Blue eyes rolled defiantly before returning to the space between his thighs. Hannibal nipped his bottom lip between teeth, sighing as a palm slipped into his trousers and cupped him, squeezing to the rhythm of a sucking mouth. Both had been brashly thrust upon him in a matter of seconds. The younger man had ambled down the ladder, mopping at sweat on his forehead, caught one glimpse of a will and testament lying on the desk and dropped to his knees. It wasn’t that Hannibal was complaining. He wasn’t. He was having a difficult time focusing, certainly, but—_

_“_ _Dieve mano!” A guttural shout tore free from his throat, desperately trying to clutch at clipped curls._

_Shaking his head, Will slipped easily through his grasp sucking him deep at the back of his throat in a foray of spit. He could feel the younger man smirk even with a slight choke. It was one of a handful of phrases Will seemed to understand in Lithuanian without the necessity of translation and he took his time exploiting it. Particularly when avoiding a conversation. One Hannibal had tried to have with him four times in the last week, at different intervals, and had been interrupted each time. The first time hauled to the edge of his desk, legs spread. Once face down in the back seat of the car on the side of a road. Another shared with a sink and mop bucket in an inconveniently narrow restroom of a café. And now, well…_

_At the frenzied pace the younger man was setting they would both asphyxiate in a manner of minutes. Will was breathing harshly through his nose, cheeks flushed bright pink, hollowed and bringing Hannibal to a dizzying array of white release flickering in his eyes. His toes curled inside leather shoes, soles dragging up a curved spine and tensed shoulder blades._

_“Am I going to have to put you on your knees to instill you with some sort of focus?”_

_Slicked lips mumbled around his cock, vibration sounding remarkably like a sarcastic jab of: “Already on my knees.”_

_The older man jerked involuntarily at the sensation, gripping an arm rest in one hand and a fist full of what little hair remained on the younger man’s head. He inhaled sharply, to steady his breathing and keep from coming. He hated this new style of short hair Will was trying out. There was absolutely nothing for him to hold on to. It made it nearly impossible to put the younger man where and how he wanted him, or in this case, didn’t want him. Or did want him but—Hannibal let out a low moan. He was never going to have a cohesive thought if Will was going to insist on lapping at the underside of his head and teasing its slit like that. If they never spoke again, except in groans of pleasure, he suspected it would suit Will just fine. He enjoyed having Hannibal at his mercy._

_“You know exactly what I was implying,” Hannibal growled after a lapse of consciousness. His thumbs latched under a jaw, tugging. “Now, please, darling. Ground yourself and focus.”_

_His cock, regrettably, popped out of a mouth with a plop. It slapped his white dress shirt hanging half open in a wrinkled mess around his stomach, red and throbbing underneath a trail of spit and precome._

_“I was focused…” Will growled back, dragging a wrist over swollen lips, glint in his eye. “…on sucking your cock. If you hadn’t noticed.”_

_“This—“ The older man tapped the papers on his desk emphatically. “–is something we have to discuss.”_

_“No. It isn’t,” The younger man seethed, rocking back on muddied boots, muscles coiling as he rose in a fraction of ticking muscles and popping joints. “I was in the middle of something. Or near the end, if you would have let me finish.” A shadow loomed. Will gripped Hannibal’s jaw in one punishing palm, forcing him to look up, and slid the other hand around his shaft. “Now shut up.”_

_He stared at a glistening mouth, flushed from exertion, drawn to a thin line of almost cruel determination. “Exactly how long do you intend to prolong the inevitable?”_

_“Another…” Will looked down, red head sliding faster through a dry grip. “Two minutes. Five tops.”_

_“And then?” Hannibal asked weakly, lifting his mouth, almost able to taste Will._

_“Then…?”_

_“Then you will allow us to have an actual conversation?”_

_Blue eyes snapped up. “I didn’t say that.” Will gripped the base of his shaft, delaying his orgasm, out of spite. “It’s really inadvisable to piss off the guy currently in control of letting you come or not, Hannibal. Your chances are diminishing drastically every time you open your mouth.”_

_Hannibal mumbled a terse ‘fuck me’ as he forcibly removed Will’s hand from around his cock and pushed him to his knees, hands on either side of his shoulders. He tightened his grip to reign control back within his grasp. The younger man glowered up, half sneer, half snarl twitching at the edge of his expression._

_“Your jaw…” The older man leaned forward, kissing at the wolf trying to break free. “…is going to be exceptionally sore if you are going to be this adverse to speaking to me.”_

_His breath rushed out._

_Will yanked him forward by the knot of his tie, teeth scraping his throat, forcibly taking control back. “A risk I am willing to take.”_

_“Will.”_

_A single dangerous curl fell over a brow, eyes narrowing. “Hannibal.”_

_Hell. He was beautiful. Why did he bother? Hannibal gripped at a heather tan Henley shirt and pulled Will against his mouth in a clash of teeth and heat._

_“Come here,” A whisper glided over a tongue._

_Knees then thighs settled over a lap, teeth nipping victoriously at a jaw. “I thought you wanted to talk.”_

_“I do. But I believe this is going to continue to be a distraction,” Hannibal murmured against lips, breath stuttering out as Will began to roll his hips, hard ache pressing back. “And I did vow to place your happiness, your care, above my own.” He nudged a throat, kissing lightly at a sensitive spot just behind an ear, earning a soft whimper. “Won’t you let me care for you, Mister Lecter?”_

_Will crumbled, mouth seeking his to consume gentle affection, hands scouring through graying strands to hold it close. There was nothing he craved more than the sight and sound of the younger man shuddering a second before giving in to need and being needed. Hannibal tilted his eyes to stare in shimmering blue, palm pressed against a trembling cheek, their foreheads touching._

_Nails tore at buttons, scraping a graying chest. “Ah…ah… more…”_

_“Not yet.” Creaks of leather slowed before picking up._

_Teeth tugged at the lobe of an ear, breathless. “Baby, please. Oh god… good, you’re so good, so good to me.”_

_“Stay with me.” Rumbling ocean waves swept over lips._

_Warm breath fluttered against arcing cheeks, warbling sparrow soaring through a blue sky. “Right here. With you. Always with you.”_

_Sky and ocean became one as a sun sank beneath the horizon in a flash of gold. Muddled jewel tones mingled in a pattern of quickened breaths gentling, wrapped in steady embrace and light._

_“I’m making a mess of you,” Will whispered, nuzzling the arc of a neck._

_“Mm…” The older man held closer to the sated body lazily draped over his chest, palms chasing after shivering skin, kissing a forehead. “I will strive to find a way to forgive you.”_

Though I would let you break me into a thousand pieces if it meant you would gather me close each time. Gilded by the gold of your mouth and the cooling water of your eyes.

_A little breath huffed against his pulse. “I’m going to have to take your suits to the dry cleaners in the morning, aren’t I?”_

_Slouching low in the chair, Hannibal tucked one arm under knees and swung Will on to his side. He unlaced boots slowly. They dropped. He peeled socks free from ankles before dragging jeans from legs. They crumpled to the floor. His fingertips circled an ankle, dragging up quivering calves and thighs, before splaying across a firm ass._

_“Inevitably,” Hannibal returned absently._

_“You’re going to make me have that talk now, huh?” Will grumbled, curling up in a lap and resting his cheek on a shoulder._

_“Hm?”_

_“This bullshit.” The paper waved in front of his face._

Oh. That.

_“You make it sound like I am moments away from launching into an hour long lecture on Dante and you are the first of my pupil’s to flee for the nearest exit.”_

_“I would have found far better uses…” A thumb circled at a slit growing cool and sticky with come. “…for your mouth as a student.”_

_“William.” Hannibal punctuated the name with a squeeze of a wrist, placing the hand in a safer, less distracting location before tucking himself away to avoid temptation._

_“It’s morbid. And unnecessary. And I don’t want to talk about it.”_

_“What will you do if I no longer am with you?”_

_A tremble of a pout gave way to a low frustrated growl. “I don’t want to talk about you dying. I don’t even want to think about it. Can’t I just fucking lay here with you and enjoy this?”_

_“I do not necessarily refer to my passing, Will. What if I was captured? What if you had to live out the remainder of your days separated from mine?”_

_A disarray of brown hair jerked to attention. “What have you done? Is there someone in the basement? Who. Who is in our basement? Goddammit, Hannibal, if you have an F.B.I agent or Jack or—“_

_“Darling—“ An owl blinked slowly. “A steady inhale of breath, please. These are purely hypothetical situations.”_

_“So…” Narrowed blue eyes drifted to the open door of the study suspiciously. “There isn’t anyone in the basement?”_

_“No.”_

_“Well…” Agitation melted from limbs as Will settled legs over a side of the chair, feet propped on the desk, scooting down to lay his head in the dip of an elbow. He glanced up, crooked smile forming. “…now we don’t have anything to eat.”_

_Hannibal wanted to nibble at the smile lines creasing his cheeks, follow the stretched tendons of his neck, run an index finger through the dark trail of hair disappearing underneath a waistband of boxers. A little moan brought him to the present. He blinked. The Henley shirt lay crumpled on the desk and Will lay shirtless beneath him, biting his lip, eyes closed. His fingers were lightly stroking the younger man through boxers, fingertips rimming a head and teasing a stain of wet warm again. Thighs shifted widening invitation. He blinked again, stilling his motions. He hadn’t even remembered doing it. It would be so easy to stroke him off, lying in his arms, relaxed and giving in. He planted both hands against a stomach, clasping them together, to keep them to himself. He had even less self-control to the desires of his subconscious than Will did._

_“This is exceptionally important. To me. Do you think you could give me some peace of mind?”_

_Defiant arms crossed, gaze slipping to stare begrudgingly at a fountain pen perched on the desk. “Fine. You first.” The younger man wriggled again, glaring at a stirring cock, then up at Hannibal before looking away. “Thanks for that. It’s not like this is helping me focus on anything you’re saying. I’m just going to stare at your mouth and picture all the ways and positions I could fuck into it.”_

_Maroon eyes drifted to stare. Will groaned as it twitched at the heated drag of attention. Hannibal tried not to imagine hoisting Will to his knees, head tilted back against the leather chair, and having him mercilessly rut into him in quick, jerky strokes. Hot heat and salt. His mouth watered. Will would be screaming his name in a matter of minutes._

_“Jesus, don’t do that…”_

_“What?”_

_“Bit your lip like that. It’s not…”_

_“Like this?” Teeth indented, tongue flicking out to leave a wet sheen over red._

_“Christ, Hannibal, don’t test me.”_

_"Should I find my glasses?" A desk drawer shuddered open. "I am having some trouble seeing in this light."_

_"Don't do this to me. Stop biting your lip, fucking hell! You know what that does to me."_

_“Be mindful of our conversation and perhaps I will be amendable to spending as much time as you would like on my knees…”_

_Will shrank from the low rumble of promise. He looked small, pale legs taut and arms tensed, looking anywhere but gentle maroon gazing down. He was fidgeting with a loose thread on his long sleeved shirt. Hannibal cupped his head, drawing the boy up, and pressing him carefully to his chest once more._

_“If anything were to happen to me, or to us…” He murmured against a brow, breathing in damp earth of an approaching Spring. He stroked lazy circles where jersey boxers met skin. “I have filled out the necessary paperwork to entrust part of our estate and possessions to the sparrow should he wish to take on the responsibility of caring for it.”_

_“You mean… you’ve asked him to take care of me? I’m not one of your possessions,” The younger man snorted. “You can’t just give me away like I’m some box of broken toys at a yard sale.”_

_“Do I not possess you, my love, as you possess me?”_

_“You can’t hand me off to another man, a priest no less, in the event of your goddamn death.”_

_“I am entrusting him with the well being of what is most precious to me. A man of God ought to intimately understand the reverence you deserve. ” The older man’s fingers were drifting again of their own accord, thumbs scouring peaked hips and pressing in. “How to worship your body and mind to best earn your devotion.”_

_“No.” An elbow jabbed between ribs._

_Will struggled free, knees knocking one another, storm crackling in eyes. He stooped to snatch up jeans and storm off. A forearm locked around his stomach in a swift motion. Hannibal caged him to his chest, hand snaking up a spine, fingers clenching stands of hair tight until a throat bared and teeth snapped at air._

_“Let go of me!”_

_He peered over a shoulder. Will was panting, cock straining underneath boxers, rough heels jammed against the tips of leather shoes._

_“You will stay as you are or I will put you on your knees.” A low warning breathed across the curve of a cheek. He swallowed thickly as arousal sparked in his belly, picturing his pocket square binding wrists or slipped between perfect white teeth. “It is idle assumption on your part to think I would allow you a third option. An answer.” Hannibal ground out a tense, “Please.”_

_“If you weren’t here?” A small voice repeated, body sinking, drained of fight._

_Hannibal relinquished his grip minutely, knees widening, before he placed Will gently in the allotted space. He kept fingers rooted in hair, palm flattening over a stomach, with enough pressure to keep the younger man from drifting in a state of panic. His skin was cooling, shivering. He was scared. The older man stroked his skin in small circles. As much as Will reveled in their shared violence, it wasn't what he needed at the moment. He would have to be gentle, kiss every inch of skin in front of their fireplace, and murmur his love against Will until pleasure shook him apart safely inside arms._

_“If I was ever to be taken into custody, yes.”_

_“…I would…Jesus Christ.” Shaking palms roughed a shadow of a beard, flattening over stinging eyes, words burning hot against wrists with a raw bark of bitter laughter. “Try to find any reason left to live.”_

_“William…” Fingers slipped through strands of hair, releasing, pained creases forming around a drooping mouth._

_Will bent at the waist, elbows balanced on knees, head dropping forward with a strained exhale. A tremor rippled from his waist up the length of his spine and flexed white knuckled fingers._

_“Fuck. Fuck. Goddammit.” The younger man’s leg started bouncing, anxiety edging in his voice, eyes darting to French doors, a Persian rug, a loosed button on the floor. “I would empty the accounts. I would…I would…” A leg stilled for one second before jerking back into motion. “I would take the boat and sail to Argentina. Exchange our passports. Destroy the old ones and drive to the villa. Is that it? Are we done? Can I fucking go now, Hannibal?” Nails bore down into thighs on either side of him, piercing glint looking back. "We're done talking. I want you on your knees. Hands behind your back." A thumb scraped open a bottom lip to reveal jagged teeth. "I'm going to fuck your throat and you can think about all the ways Elias would moan around me in your absence. Let's see if you're so goddamn eager to leave me to him then."_

_Seething jealousy reared its ugly head in a flash. Red eyes smoldered black. Fingernails left harsh marks down arms. The older man's mouth flinched a snarl. He forced out a long, heated breath between teeth. Will was controlling him as effectively as ever. This is what he wanted. A perfected defense mechanism to ensure they both left each other with bruises and fresh bite marks. The younger man was at his most vulnerable, fragile, and terrified when hiding behind bared teeth and blue glinting eyes. The older man struggled against the demons rising in him to answer in kind, lusting after the darkest parts of them both. He drew his hands away. He took another breath and released it. Not this time. He would not be goaded into giving up and giving in. Will needed the most human parts of Hannibal he could offer, even as he tried to lure out the beast. They needed the knotted mess of their souls to tangle and hold close.  
_

_Leaning forward, Hannibal blanketed his chest across the younger man and drew him in. Will flinched from the tips of his fingers to toes, startling to a rigid stance. He smoothed palms over shoulders, elbows, up trembling wrists and curved palms over hands covering a face. He kept Will hidden. From him. From himself. From the images he forced him to conjure. He would hide him from terrible truth and shelter him from consequence for as long as he could control either. Will let out a weak sigh when Hannibal dragged his lips from his jaw down to soothe._

_“Would you…” He kissed a small freckle on a neck tenderly, pressing his ear to a back. A clattering heartbeat stuttered. “…swim in the grotto in the morning and return to Elias in the evening for a meal on the balcony overlooking the ocean where we were reborn?”_

_Will went deathly still, voice tolling quietly. “Please don’t make me answer that.”_

_“I want to know you will be cared for. That you will be supported by family. Have someone to turn to in my absence. Is it not within reason to ensure this even if I am unable to provide for you?”_

Am no longer with you in this life to do so?

_Shaking, the younger man bolted, caught only by a light hand latched on his wrist. Trapped by a desert night sky abandoned to weathered elements beckoning at his back. Blue eyes strained for the open doors again in search of an escape. Will stayed where he was, toes curled, body rigid._

_“And what if we were both taken? What if I was the one captured and deported to the States, Hannibal? What would you do?”_

I would be consumed by a thousand agonizing deaths over the course of my remaining life without you.

_He caressed a bone on a slender wrist, twitching violently at the mere mention of Will being placed back in captivity, sacrificed to endless days of suffering with only his dark imagination as companionship. He would rather die first than live through that. Be without his light. His demons had grown used to being seen, touched, caressed in the darkness and kissed in the light of day. Without Will? He shook away the thought._

_“Do you…” Will placed a hand over his face again, grimacing through slotted fingers. “…have any idea how difficult it was for me to be away from you when I left the first time?”_

_Hannibal rose eyes a fraction to stare at the back of a head. The separation was something they never spoke about. They never had. Even when Hannibal had tried to push the subject and Will had reciprocated in kind, disappearing into rooms and resisting his touch. He didn’t dare bring it up. Didn’t dare invite nightmares back into their home, into their bed, into their lives once more. They both vehemently denied the existence of near death and violence it had brought upon them with resolute silence._

_“That was only a few weeks. I started having these, these…attacks. Like someone had pulled a knotted string inside me and I started to unravel. Didn’t you ever wonder why I was drinking? I needed…”_

_The ground seemed to split, cavernous ravine widening in the few feet between them. Hannibal felt a well of helpless need rush to his mouth, coming out in a shaky exhale, tugging at a wrist. Will stayed where he was, on the other side, eyes closed and trembling, reliving. He didn’t need to picture the younger man stooped over a table littered in bottles, bleary eyed and dazed, arms curled around himself to provide comfort. A habit built over an empty lifetime meant to soothe. Hannibal had come to know it with an intimacy of his own making, on the floor of their kitchen, begging for Will to kiss him one last time goodbye and let go, even as Will pushed him away, hand over his mouth to smother a confession of love._

_“What did you need?” The older man asked with bated breath._

_“You.”_

_A frail moan perched in his mouth, breaking free, heart lurching. Hannibal dropped his gaze to the floor, hand falling away with it. He stared at wood grain etched in the floor._

_"I wanted to fucking come home to you. And I just...couldn't." Arms wrapped around a smaller torso, still within his frame of vision, hugging tighter. “It felt like my bones were breaking, being crushed by this weight of knowing… what it was like to seek comfort in your touch without asking. And you weren't there. I just wanted to come home.”_

_Will didn’t possess the words to ask in the beginning. He had never learned them. Just pushed his cheek in a palm with pleading eyes to seek closeness. Hannibal felt the world dimming, to a single solitary sound of his aching heart, to picture every moment Will had walked out of his life and left him. He had wanted Hannibal to know. To know he needed him. To stay at his side or go after him. And reach out. He had wanted Hannibal to bring him home. He had left him spitefully in the cold to suffer as Will had made him suffer in a wintry night before Jack came. Why hadn’t he known? Christ, why hadn't he tried harder?_

_A pad of a thumb drifted over a furrowed brow, soft and uncertain. “No one really touched me before you.”_

_“You were infatuated with Alana long before you met me.” Hannibal looked down to see he had torn leather on armrests, nails embedded in its supple skin, voice rough. “There must have been others.”_

Why didn’t you tell me you needed me, Will? 

_Will laughed at that, a pained flat noise to cover barren discomfort setting his knee to a bouncing motion, wedding band glimmering. “None that stayed. Too withdrawn. Too quiet. Too unstable. One to many times of waking to my screams in the middle of night. Not exactly someone to get close to. It hurt worse to have them pull away so I… built forts.”_

_Red rimmed eyes lifted. Hannibal felt as if he hadn’t slept in years. As if was sitting on the other side of Will in Jack’s office, looking at desperate loneliness welling in blue beyond a barrier of glass. Had they ever left that moment?_

_“You denied yourself the most basic desire of connection to alienate yourself from the concept, or to blind yourself from the possibility of ever receiving it?”_

_“It wasn’t for me. It was something other people had. Just something else to observe, process, and identify with from a distance.” The younger man shrugged, settling against the desk, slumped, hugging himself tighter. “If I had anything it was fleeting. Empty. There and then gone without so much as a whisper of sheets.”_

_“You let me touch you.” Blue eyes darted anxiously to the hand reaching out, faltering, before it dropped against a plaid knee. “In time.”_

_Will was too raw. If he touched him now, he would run with certainty. Would he ever return? Hannibal wanted him with a pang of hunger. Beneath him. Skin to skin. Mouth to mouth. Glistening in sweat and consuming fever. Where Will felt every good intention and misplaced words of longing Hannibal was unable to show. The sacred place they shook apart together, to lie inside the others pieces._

_“I never felt pitied when you did.”_

_“What is it you felt?”_

_“An indescribable sense of peace.” Teeth left red welts across a wavering confession. “And comfort. Safe. I felt safe for the first time in my life.”_

_Hannibal rose eyes slowly, mourning, to rest on a trembling mouth, a wincing cheek, blue sliding away to keep from meeting his. He gauged the distance between them. He was suffocating, arms empty, heart breaking without the pressure of a soul settling against him. He wanted. He wanted only Will. He wrapped a hand around a waist and dragged the younger man forward. He shucked jersey material up before burying his face against a scar on a stomach, eyes wet, breathing in his scent._

_“This, Hannibal…” Will whispered softly, fingers sliding through a mess of scattered starlight falling at his feet, shaking from the sudden connection. “Not, what will happen to me if you’re gone. Not, what will I do. What will become of me if I lose the only person who has ever quieted my mind, stilled the madness, with a single hand on me?”_

_The younger man placed a chaste kiss on the top of his head, fingers curling around shoulders and delicately pushed away. Hannibal reeled from the loss, clutching at a hem of a shirt before it too was pulled away. Everything he cherished suddenly, without warning, out of his reach once more. He wrenched a tie from his neck, throat closing, cutting off oxygen._

_“Will—“_ Stay, stay and allow me to hold you close. Nothing else matters _. “–wait.”_

_Head bowed, Will stopped at the sound of a voice calling out and braced in the doorway, holding up the entire foundation of their lives. He waited. Hannibal sank against the chair, fingers clenched around his knees, voice lost to the possibility of an uncertain future._

_“I can’t…” The younger man’s arms shook, buckling beneath the weight. “I can’t give you what you want. I don’t know how to say that to you. To give you peace, knowing losing you would take away mine. I can only tell you I’ll exist, breathe, and try to remember how to look and sound as if my world isn’t falling apart.”_

_Will slipped soundlessly out of sight, leaving Hannibal to stare at after images of him, through a blur of tears._

_"I'm sorry, Will..." Rain drops splashed against a wooden floor, quivering silver before sinking through slats. "...I simply need you...how else would you have me ask?"_

*

Hannibal coiled tighter around the blanket he had formed into a lumpy and poor substitute of Will. Knees clamped where a delicate waist would have been. Hands curved at shoulders and a neck to cradle the younger man to his chest. He tucked a cold nose underneath a yarn bound edge. Mothballs and must filled his lungs. He listened to wretched, pale breathing on the other side of the wall and held tighter.

_“What is it that blackens your mind in the throes of deepest sleep, Will?”_

_“Moments…of separation.”_

Bed springs creaked pitifully, feet shuffling across a cell, pained voice a low whisper. “Hannibal?”

His eyes lifted to stare at cement blocks. He knew Will was standing on the other side, braced on a forearm, forehead resting in its crook, and waiting. The younger man formed the question as if he spoke too loudly, he might realize Hannibal was no longer there, or hadn’t been all long, just another walking shadow to keep him company.

“Are you having another attack?” Hannibal asked quietly, inch by inch of muscles tensing to steel himself against the sounds it would bring, the horrid, helpless cries of the man he loved shattering.

Fingers curled, knuckles roughed by stone, quiet. “Not right now…”

Relief flooded in. A twinge of guilt tripped after it close on its heels.

“I should have…restrained myself for your sake,” Hannibal noted, trying to soften his clipped tone as he dragged his cast leg forward and swung it over a side of the cot. He rubbed at throbbing pain he couldn’t reach. He wanted to tear the damn thing off, a wolf content with gnawing off its own paw to escape. He knew better. He had never born weakness well. “I was once the cause of your instability and deteriorating health. It was not my intention to be the catalyst for it once again.”

“You don’t need to spare me your feelings.” Tears rose in the voice drifting in.

“Yes, well, you do not necessarily need to be privy of their existence either,” The older man shot back, clamping fingers together and squeezing until it bruised.

What was wrong with him? He had to stop.

“How many months…how many _years_ …did it take me to break down your walls, Hannibal?” Controlled frustration hissed through gritting teeth. “I fought for the right to see you as you are. _To know you_. I have the scars, _your_ scars, of finally letting me in. Are you really going to shut me out again?”

A few moments of thundering empty air and tension hung between them.

“When you’re…all I have,” Will murmured, muffled, a statement spoken out loud, meant only to comfort himself.

Hannibal gripped the steel rail of his cot, staring out at the wreckage of his cell. Shards of a mirror glimmered in the corner. The metal sink bore fresh dents, askew and tilting to one side, held by a tense thread of thin piping to the floor. He catalogued the destruction he had dealt to Will, directly or indirectly, in a series of checked boxes running through his mind. He had never known how to express need without crushing the very thing he wanted to keep from leaving him.

He gnawed at his lip, drawing blood. “Are you willing to bear a thousand more by hand?”

“As many as you need,” A choked voice replied. “Just…don’t go. I stayed when you asked me not to retreat.”

“Weighing our past against one another to gain advantage is a callous means of manipulation, Will.”

“Just a choice. It’s either me, or the glint of the rail, Doctor Lecter. You can’t have both.” A palm flattened stone, voice gentling to broken glass. “And I…won’t make it this time. Not without you.”

Maroon eyes slipped through a glimmer of tears. Hannibal was drawn to his knees, pushing his palms up the other side of the wall, and rested his forehead against it. He imagined holding Will, face to face, palms against his cheeks, eyes closed. He leaned in, arms tensing. A soft moan answered. He knew Will felt him reaching out.

A shaky breath left him. “There will be times I will have to retreat…”

_To spare you from the darkest parts of my true self. To keep you safe from me._

“Tell me then. Will you… tell me first? Can you, I mean? Please?”

“If…”

_“I don’t know how to say that to you. To give you peace, knowing losing you would take away mine.”_

“If it brings you peace.”

“…Hannibal?” The drawl of his name hung with the heaviness of black clouds rain laden moments before a storm.

Hannibal winced at the implication, knuckles flexing, pushing at dark curls and drawing them over a quivering mouth in his mind.

“An unnecessary question,” A gravelly whisper creaked out. “They would have to take my beating heart before I was capable of no longer loving you.”

Pained relief bubbled in the form of a short laugh. “I wish…”

The older man straightened, eyes narrowing fiercely, pushing away from the wall and staring as if it might break apart and deliver Will into his arms. “What is it I can give you?”

“It’s going to sound…stupid.”

“Tell me.”

He thought of blood stained palms pressed to lips as Will had consumed his flesh, bicep throbbing, begging to be of use to the younger man in any way he could. Whatever he needed. Wanted. Wished for. Anything.

“Your hand. I wish I could hold your hand,” Will mumbled, thick laughter rattling, hand pushing through hair. “Freezing my ass off.”

Hannibal watched his own grey breath in the damp dark, flexing cold fingers, trying to kindle a fire through every word he pushed across his tongue and bring warmth to all he loved. “This coming from a man who used to stand on his roof in boxers during the dead of winter?”

His knees buckled, nearly dropping to the floor at the smile he heard in reply, gentle candlelight. “You can’t hold that against me. I wasn’t well. Aside from that, I told you that in confidence. I got very used to sleeping in a pile of dogs for body warmth. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I am sure I have no idea…” The older man countered dryly, corner of his lip lifting.

He shifted, body sluggish from cold. He had been numb for the better part of a week. Even rolling over was beginning to become a challenge. He reached for the woolen blanket and threw it over a shoulder. Hannibal found a crevice in the wall and held on, climbing on top of the cot to stand. His knee popped, shaking from supporting all his weight. He hauled his cast leg after him, biting back a yelp of pain. He fought a wave of nausea as he stood on tiptoes, straining to reach the slotted bars above. Fire billowed broken ribs. He punched an edge of the blanket through, metal grinding his wrist raw.

“Are you able to reach this?” The older man asked between clenched teeth.

“What…” Will shuffled forward on the other side, pressing the length of his body against the wall and reaching up. “…is it?”

A tug on the blanket brought tears to Hannibal’s eyes, flesh torn open, his wrist hauled forward.

“A bit more.” He grimaced, trying to keep his tone soft, gentle. “It’s almost loose.”

The blanket hissed with another sharp tug, corner snagging.

“What are you—oh.”

They both froze. Neither of them breathing. Frigid fingertips brushed Hannibal’s, stretching, before curling just around the edges of his. A sob welled his lungs. The older man clawed at the wall, shoving his forearm forward, skin tearing with it. He closed eyes, crushing slender fingers inside his own.

“Hey…” A thick rasp called.

Hannibal bit at his trembling mouth to steady the cracking tenor of his reply. “Hello.”

“Your hands are like ice.” Fingertips flexed, tracing his palm, dragging until fingers slotted and slipped together. “You’re going to need this.”

Lashes fell heavy over eyes, tears streaking through. “One of us spent a great deal of time in Russia, dearest, this is practically a heat wave in comparison.”

A trembling thumb grazed his index finger. “I’ll give it back to you.”

He rolled his head against a stone corner, inhaling sharply as pain tore through his side. “It will carry your scent.”

“Take mine tonight?”

“After you have had a proper rest.” Sweat beaded his brow, legs and arms quaking.

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.” Hannibal spoke the next words as softly, quietly, as falling snow. “I am going to let go now.”

“Right. Your leg.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Will fingers shook as much as his voice, squeezing tight once before moving to slip free. “I…so am I. Let’s not talk about it now. I’m tired.”

As cold fingers drifted from his own, Hannibal saw glimpses of Will trapped inside a blackened ocean and tremble of moonlight, limp and being dragged to a final resting place upon ocean floor in a halo of misting red. He heard the roar of the waves and siren call of the rocks. Anger simmered in his blood. He had not faced death and the slithering creatures of Poseidon to lose Will to this frigid circle of Hell. His cheek flinched against stone, lip curling, as he withdrew ragged flesh. He sagged to his knees, arm tucked against his chest, and stared at an empty palm pooling with blood. True emptiness rested in the deep grooves of skin where Will’s hand should have been. If he was lucky it would scab for him to open again and again in search of brief connection. If he was unlucky, it would bubble with infection and give him a new reason to wish to be lost to hours of fitful sleep.

A rough grunt broke the quiet. “Are you lying down?”

“Mmhm…” Blankets rustled faintly.

“Eyes closed?”

“Yeah.” A hand twitched pitifully on the cement. “God…it smells like you. I fucking miss you. I want you here. I want-”

“Shhh.”

His heart was breaking. He couldn't give what the younger man so desperately needed, a shelter from the storm within his body. Hannibal could hear the trembling return to Will’s body with every dragging minute passing. He wanted to ask him to hold himself, arms wrapped around his torso like he would hold him in their bed. He wanted him to kiss the calluses on his hands and wrists. To run his hands through his hair and feel Hannibal breathing against the curve of his neck.

“Would you…” The older man sighed, weakness creeping back in, no longer of any use to anyone, even himself. “…like me to sing a melody to help you sleep?”

“No.” There was a long pause. “You don’t know how to hum power ballads from The Ramones.”

Hannibal felt the press of fingers twining his tear stained face and curled fists, a deeper ache bleeding through his wounds. “Fair enough.”

“The stars are out,” Will whispered. “I can see them through the skylight on our boat.”

Dark eyes lifting, Hannibal stared helplessly at the wall and began to shake, pained by the feeble comfort being offered to him. He tried to move from the cot, needing to stretch for the barred gate and hold onto any bit of Will he could. If he could only hold his hand a moment longer...His knees buckled. He collapsed on the floor. His cheek and then skull banged after it. He groaned, vision dimming. A pile of old bones. He was frail and fading and unworthy of offering Will protection. Whatever called upon him when the time came, he would remain cornered, crouched and snarling with teeth, a limping wolf unable to protect its mate. He was not the man who had bludgeoned a dozen men to death on Muskrat Farm and carried Will to safety. The same question plaguing him for weeks whispered.

_What kind of a man am I?_

“Are you—“ The younger man sat up. “Are you alright?”

“Fine…” The older man answered through a fog. “Trying to move closer to you.”

Strained exhaustion reached his ears. “Please don’t lie on the floor. Not in your condition.”

“Why?” He hauled himself forward by palms, numb limbs dragging after, slithering beneath the cot and coming to rest on his stomach. It was far colder among the grit of the floor than he had guessed. “You seem to be content with catching a near certain case of pneumonia upon it. I am striving to be a decent husband and supporting your efforts.”

He thought of the deep bullet wound healing in Will’s side, the one above his knee, and his own throbbing ache of broken ribs. The younger man must have been miserable, shivering from cold and unfiltered pain. He wanted to lower him into a hot bath and heal his wounds with lilac salve and burning candles as he once had. When Will had relied solely on the strength of his arms and the tenderness of his hands.

“I can handle it.”

“As can I. Put your blanket underneath you.”

“Hann—“

“Now. Or you will sleep in your bed.”

“What?” A scolded nose wrinkled. “Are you going to come over here and make me?”

“ _Will-iam Lecter_ …” Hannibal growled, red eyes sparking.

Cursing muttered as blankets snapped and roughed across cement. In sync, Will and Hannibal both curled on their side. The wall touched them where their knees would have met lying in their bed. Hannibal closed his eyes and saw Will staring out through a pile of wool, head lying on his arm. Something shifted against stone. Hannibal raised his palm and pressed it to a brick. He felt Will pressing back.

“You are draped against my chest, one of your hands resting in mine above the steady beat of my heart…” Hannibal began softly, inching forward until their bodies met in a connecting palm, an elbow, a hip, and a knee. “My lips pressed to salty breeze clinging to your forehead. I’m staring at the photographs you have taken for me on the ceiling, listening to the gentle lap of the ocean waves.”

“Are you reading to me?”

“Yes…my mouth against the tip of your ear, quiet and steady.”

Imagined pages crinkled. “ _’Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn, Among the river sallows, borne aloft, Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies…_ ’”

He felt tension melting from the younger man’s form, burrowing deeper beneath blankets, eyes drifting closed. He would bring Will peace even if it killed him. The younger man was there, in his mind, lulled to sleep by Hannibal’s voice and the caress of waves. His arms and hands ached, desperate to hold on to the image they were painting.

“Your warm…” Will murmured. “Run your fingers through my hair?”

He blinked at tears. “Like this?”

“Mm…”

“May I kiss you? Crush you in my arms until we both cease to breathe? Together to become nothing but drifting dust?”

“M..mm…” A palm slid, fingers coming to rest in a corner.

The older man pressed knuckles to barren lips, chilled where Will had touched them with breath, watching shadows dispel and draw Will farther from him. “Good night, mylimasis.”

Hannibal fought cresting tears burning lungs and choking him. He had not let the years take Will. He had denied his blade a final kiss. He had bled out underneath a piano and filled stone runes to save him. He had refused the ocean its sacrifice. Cheated the beckoning of death in the cramped quarters of a ship. Will was his. And now… he had nothing. Only their memories and the sound of his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :crying quietly: Do you ever feel like we are playing a very intricate game of cats in the cradle? Where I continue to pass threads over, under, and around one another to make connections and references all throughout time and space? It's a wonder this isn't a knotted mess by now.
> 
> Are we okay, guys? Here's the thing, why I wanted to do this, write this. What happens when the only person you've ever loved is gone? Just out of reach? When you can only hold onto one another through memory? What does living with that kind of forced separation look like? Feel like? If Will and Hannibal were imprisoned, how would they survive without the other? (I also really want to draw this image of them lying on either side of the wall, reaching out for the other.)
> 
> Here's another thought. Exactly what did Hannibal do all those hours after having made his confession of needing Will with his "Do we talk about teacups and time and the rules of disorder?" and that goddamn notebook full of equations trying to reverse time, to take back all the violence he had brought against Will, to restore them as they were, a family with a daughter? After Will's scathing, gutting, refusal to have them put back together, as they were, or as they are: "I'm not going to miss you. I'm not going to find you. I'm not going to look for you. I don't want to know where you are or what you do. I don't want to think about you anymore." Did Hannibal sit out in the dead of winter, staring out at the silhouette of Will in the house, longing for a light he would never have? Denied by the only person he had ever loved? Freezing cold and imagining in agonizing detail how Will had felt beneath his hands as he dressed him in fresh clothes, and kissed his scars left by Chiyoh and Mason? (Seriously, tell me your theories, I need to write it. My heart.)
> 
> Poem: "Ode to Autumn" x John Keats


	5. Chapter 5

Heavy bolts ground free. A hinged door creaked open. Hannibal jolted awake. His head banged on metal springs above. He fell back with a groan, momentarily stunned. A newly formed welt throbbed to life. He was one hit shy of a self-inflicted concussion. He had to be more careful before he unwillingly took the easy way out. He placed an arm over the bridge of his nose to shut out blinding white light. His eyes stung. Soles scuffed cautiously, slowly, one by one into the cell. Two, no, three pairs of combat boots by the vibration of the ground. He felt like a salamander frozen by dipping temperatures, sunning on a rock, limbs yet too sluggish to move. His calves twitched. He needed to get up.

“What…what was that?” A voice slurred by fatigue and sleep pricked his ears. “Is someone there?”

Will. His Will. Was he in danger? With a grunt, Hannibal rolled out from beneath the cot and dragged himself up on his good knee. He squinted. Three looming black shadows surrounded him. He grunted a bitter laugh. At least Will was safe.

A voice thundered. “On your feet.”

Feet stumbled in the adjoining cell, fear lilting a voice. “Hannibal?”

Maroon eyes scanned murky silhouettes, shoulders hunching defensively, voice rough from exhaustion. “Uninvited guests.”

“I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Up.” Gloved hands pulled a pair of gleaming handcuffs from a belt. “Or we will drag you out of here.”

Hannibal snorted derisively, latching on an edge of a sink and teetered unsteadily to a standing position. He tried not to appear to be leaning all of his dead weight on it. His precarious grip was the only thing keeping him upright. It was a miracle he was standing at all. Sharp needles ran down both legs, bones stiff from cold. Muscles addled from lack of movement. Will would have been furious at him for ignoring his health in favor of remaining next to him on the floor. He sighed softly, limping unsteadily.

_And what you do not know will not hurt you, darling._

“Seeing as how I am incapable of moving much on my own, I imagine the only way I will leave this cell is with a helping hand…” The older man countered, low and dark, quiet enough to keep Will from hearing. “Friendly or otherwise.”

A fist pounded on the wall. “What’s going on?”

Three pairs of black eyes glanced at the sound before returning to train on him, cold and unfeeling. If he didn’t say something soon Will was going to have another attack. If he did say something…well, he knew the outcome would be the same. A button popped open on a leather holster, thumb trained on the edge of a gun. Exactly what would the outcome of three visitors in the a.m. hours be for him? Unsavory seemed to be a fair assumption.

“It would appear…” Hannibal called, raising his voice to a hum of pleasant notes. “I will be going out for some fresh air, my dearest.”

“Wait, what!” Confusion pitched high and low. “Who’s there?”

A glinting baton cracked open, long shadow pointing at the door. “ _Now_.”

There was no misinterpreting the intent of the gesture. Hannibal stiffened, side eyeing shards of the mirror to his right. He tried to shift weight to his maimed leg and winced behind the safety of his teeth. It wouldn't do. He could barely move it. Let alone put pressure. A hand slid fully around a firearm resting on a leather belt. Another baton slid free, tapping anxiously against a thigh. He grimaced, forcing shoulders back in a straight line to rise to his full height. They wanted a fight. He would have to dive for the glass to retrieve a weapon. The burning ache had turned to a dull throb, but he knew his broken ribs wouldn’t take the force of another blow. At worst, there was risk of puncturing his lungs. Calculations clattered. There was a ten percent chance he _might_ survive another beating. He ticked a tongue across a sharp tooth. Five percent if he was being brutally honest. A ninety nine percent chance the three looming gentleman before him weren’t inviting him for a pleasant chat. He let out a breath.

_And a one percent chance of being returned to Will…In a body bag.  
_

The odds were not in his favor. When were they ever? He sure as hell wasn’t going to force Will to listen. Blackened fury winced against his cheek. He would keep him safe from the sight, from the sound, from the visions in his mind. He had control over this. His end. He was not afraid of dying. He had welcomed it with open arms and ease of a man who had chosen his life freely. Will had not chosen to welcome Death to come and take him. He would not make him choose to let him go. He would simply…go.

“Darling, I will be accompanying these gentleman for a walk.” He lowered his voice. “There’s no need for that…” Hannibal nodded towards the baton and then the door, palms lifting to show he had no weapons, struggling to speak just above a whisper. “I’ll come quietly. I would appreciate you not alarming my husband.”

Flaking paint floated from the ceiling as Will banged harder on the wall, voice nearing a panicked shout. “What the fucking Christ is going on!”

“Will…” He emphasized the name with a firm growl. The pounding slowed and then stopped. Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment, bringing the bruised fist to his mouth and kissing away the brutality. “Would you like me to fetch anything while I am out? Before I return? A cup of honeyed tea? Another blanket? Anything you might require?”

_In my enduring and eternal absence._

“Where…” Will’s fragile voice cracked on a whisper. “Where are they taking you?”

This was it. The last time he would ever hear Will’s voice. He sounded so frightened. The older man’s chest rose and fell, no longer able to control labored breathing. The room started to spin. His wrists ached. He had clenched his fists at some point. His knees were locked. He forced them to loosen, to keep from passing out. In a blink, he was transported to filth of hay and a pig pen, straining against leather bonds and thinking he had heard Will screaming as his lovely, gentle face was cut and peeled from his skull inch by inch.

_I was trying to save Will from you, but right now, you're the only one who can save him. Promise me you'll save him._

_I promise._

“I take it this will be a one way ticket kind of journey? You should have given some notice. I haven’t yet packed my suit case.” A calm measured voice rang out in hushed tones from somewhere within his soul. “May I… at least have a moment to say goodbye?”

Who would save Will now? From whatever awaited him? From himself? From his mind? Would he take his own life as he had promised? Gash open his wrists and bleed out in the frigid air, deserted and abandoned? Or tie the blanket around grated bars and then place it around his neck, feet kicking, last breath and scent of Hannibal reaching his lungs?

A leathery hand clamped down on his bicep and hauled him forward. “Not a fucking chance.”

He stumbled, another hand clamping under his arm. Hannibal stared at a blur of light meeting shadow at the tips of his feet. He saw Will where the two met. How Will smiled for the first time, blue stream of morning touching his face over breakfast then clouded by confusion at gentle praise. Heard his wispy breaths fogging the window of a car in blind loneliness, fevered and fast asleep, as Hannibal drove through a thunderstorm. He felt a blood stained cheek of compassion come to rest at the center of his chest where his heart ceased to beat and his world narrowed to only Will. He loved him. He loved him more than the transcendental beauty of a thousand glass stained churches and broken china. He had wanted to give his life. To litter his hands with a thousand hand written apologies until their was no room for either of them to breathe. To say he loved him. And he was deeply sorry. For everything he had done. Everything he would ever do. He would never say the words to Will again.

“Hey! Hannibal!” Will was yelling again, both fists pummeling the wall. “Hey! Answer me, goddammit!”

How long would his voice hold before giving out?

“Why don’t you lie down and rest, William?” Some other part of him was still talking, the beguiled tailored monster with a soothing and tender tone. He stared dimly at snowfall of the ceiling drifting free, settling against his slumped shoulders. “Close your eyes. Think of our boat. Think of the sea. Think of my arms holding you. Think of me, Will.”

_Lie back and wade in to the quiet of the stream._

“The fuck—“ Ragged breath stuck in a throat, beating palms stuttering. “Are you…” He heard the knit of thick brows, the quirk of a frown, wide rain water blue lifting. “…saying goodbye to me? Hannibal, you better fucking answer me! Are you—”

Will would not have the energy to bloody his hands much longer. Hannibal held on to the small comfort, tucking it in a moth eaten corner of his chest. He would crumple, a heaving mess in a matter of minutes, at the mercy of a panic attack. Tear stained and sweat soaked. He hoped the blankets were near, to stave off chill and sickness. To serve as some ill contented comfort. He wished he could wrap the younger man inside them, carry him to his cot, and press one final kiss to his mouth.

“I’ll wake you when I return.” Handcuffs bit his wrists. The panicked pounding of his heart remained beneath a still glassy voice. “I’ll be gone only a moment.”

“What? No, hey, _no_!”

Glittering rubies lifted to the nearest set of eyes, jaw unhinging. “Do what you want with me, but don’t you dare lay a hand on him. So help me god, do not even _think_ of harming what is under my protection. Leave him in peace. Do we have an understanding?”

A set of amber eyes flitted to meet ivy ones.

“After you, gentleman.”

Bruising hands jerked him forward without another word, pulled across the floor and out in to the sterile corridor of endless white of incandescent light and steel doors.

“Hannibal! Hannibal!”

Behind him a wolf paced, back and forth, back and forth, howling in its cage. Hannibal counted the tiles on the floor. He had never meant to cage Will. Not the first time. He had never intended to imprison him to his touch or in the darkest recesses of his heart. Never meant to love him. Except he did. Violently and without explanation. He simply locked himself away in hopes Will might find the prison of his arms a far better substitute for glass. He didn’t want to leave him here. What would happen to Will when he was gone? Truly gone…Will would wither and die without him. Of that he was sure. The sunken impression of his skull would paint the most melancholic hues of dove and stony blue. He would make a beautiful corpse. The older man's shoulder jerked.

_What will they do with his body?_

“Fucking Christ, someone answer me! I have a right to know!” Steel reverberated as fists pounded against it. “He’s my husband. Where are you taking him! Where are you—fuck!” A shoulder rammed against the door. “Hannibal! Hannibal! Oh Jesus fucking Christ, tell me you’re still there, baby! Please.”

A final thundering scream followed a hallway, snaked up a flight of stairs, and was trapped on the other side of finality. A door clicking closed.

“ _Hannibal!_ ”

*

Will’s heart flat lined the fourth hour of screaming. His strength went with it, a dwindling whisper of smoke. His voice a screech of raw scrapes and clicks. His throat smoldered. His lungs shuddered over and over again. Electric sparks of anxiety raced beneath his skin, arms and legs jerking violently. His mind spiraled in a fierce descent of grief. Denial hit first.

_He isn’t gone. He isn’t gone. He isn’t gone. Wake up._

He would wake up in their bed safe and loved and warm. He wasn’t gone. He was coming back. He was going to come back.

_He said so. I’m dreaming. Dreaming._

He had to wake up. His bloodied fists tapped out an erratic rhythm of anger against his temples. Blood dripped down the back of his eyelids, filling his body, spilling out this mouth.

_I’ll kill them. Every goddamn one of them. He’s mine. You can’t just leave me here. Fuck you, Hannibal, when I get my hands on you—_

Breath burned through his nostrils. His cold sweat soaked brow ground across stone. He stared at the thin beam of light underneath the doorway, pleading.

_Take me. Take me._

He felt old welts splitting open across his back, blood trickling down his thighs, breath stuttering out. A low whine frothed against the back of his bruised throat, trying to shake off the sensation of his jaw being forced open, skin and salt choking him.

_Do whatever you want with me. To me. Use me. Just… leave him alone. I’ll do whatever you want._

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. The younger man coiled tighter in a ball, arms locked over his ears, blood caked hands clamped around the back of his neck. He tried to drown out the high pitched whimpers bouncing off cement walls. An animal wailing for help. He couldn’t make the sound stop. It wouldn't stop.

_Please make it stop. Hannibal, I need you. I need you. Please. Come back._

His palms sweat. His teeth chattered from the sheer force tearing through him. Terror. Rage. And cresting panic dragging him beneath. He rocked back and forth on his side, staring blankly at the ribbon of light beneath the cell door. He would wait. The finality of Hannibal’s steady, low voice was deafening.

_“Close your eyes. Think of our boat. Think of the sea. Think of my arms holding you. Think of me, Will.”_

“No, no, no…”

Cracking dry lips parted, wheezing acceptance. “Wait…come back…come back…I just wanted to say goodbye…”

_Wake up. Wake me up, Hannibal. Please._

He squeezed eyes shut until green and white ink blots appeared. He opened them slowly. The edge of Hannibal's gentle smile on the horizon. He reached out. The image wavered. He was alone.

*

Maroon eyes tipped over a torn sleeve hanging loose on a left shoulder. They slid down a forearm and studied bruised, bleeding wrist cuffed to a metal chair. His current situation was inconvenient. Bordering on frustratingly intolerable. Chain looped through and around the open back of the chair. When he pulled left, the chain chimed bringing his right hand with it. When he pulled right, his right hand followed his left. It didn’t matter how many times he repeated the action. Measured distance of chain link remained.

_The very definition of insanity._

It was physically impossible to break his thumb and slip out of the cuffs with fingertips just barely out of reach. His first instinct (after being thrown into a eight by eight foot windowless room and left to fume) was to tip the chair and break his wrist to free himself. It was as logical as the idea of chewing it off with his teeth. There posed a small problem. The chair was bolted to the floor with half inch rusted screws. If Fate was a person, he would have cracked open her ribs for a slow open fire roast, marinated the meat in a bone marrow, and smothered her in pearl onions and a dollop of root ragout. Hannibal jerked on the chains, head tipping back and releasing a hiss of frustration. Red specks of blood joined others on the cement. She was unfortunately _not_ a person. If she had been, he wouldn't have even deemed her worthy of eating, simply thrown her carcass for the birds to feast upon.

_Fate's a bitch, Hannibal... Dancing blue eyes stirred from beneath a sail whipping in the wind. I don't know why you don't ever believe me._

The scrawny pup Hannibal was waiting for hadn’t returned for hours. The older man kept looking at his wrist as if a watch was still strapped to it. If he had a pen within reach he would have simply drawn one on. (Another irony not lost upon him.) His thumb and nails drummed against aluminum. He shot a stare heated with resentment at the cast on his leg. It was appallingly ill mannered to make a man of his… A tongue slicked against the back of teeth, considering. ... _caliber_ wait, for an undisclosed and non negotiated manner of time, to meet his ultimate and inescapable demise. His clattering nails stopped for a second before starting up again. It was just _fucking rude._ (Somewhere in the attic of his mind, a small voice reprimanded him on his callously unrefined speech. Noting he had clearly spent far too much time in Will’s company. He had a few choice words for that voice as well.) Had he agreed to leave his cell quietly? Yes. Had he agreed to be led willingly to his death? He followed the thought with a roll of his eyes. More or less. Had he agreed to be chained to a chair in a room (somehow metaphysically smaller and colder than the one he had been in previously) and left to stare at the unsettling dirty snarl of his own reflection in an aluminum table for hours on end?

“Fuck!”

His wrist cracked, straining against chain, in an attempt to run them through his wild mane of grey. He needed to get to Will. He considered the distorted reflection, swearing softly a moment later. Who was this stranger looking out at him? His hair was matted with crumbling cement and plaster, wild and hanging like a clump of polyester batting passed his collarbone. A peppered beard was beginning to form on his jaw, a thin veil to hide ugly yellowing bruises and a newly acquired set of scars. He imagined pulling at black circles under his eyes to reveal bloodshot white. The gaunt sinew of his throat stood stark against revolting fluorescent orange of a prison uniform, covered in weeks of soot and dried blood. He looked like a goddamn nightmare. He snorted. Or a half smashed and rotting jack o’lantern. He averted his gaze to a corner of the room, shoulders shifting uncomfortably against aching arms. Will hadn’t seen him like this. Old. Tired. And…hideous. Perhaps his outside visage suited him far better than clipped hair and clean shaven skin ever had. A well dressed beast. He sighed. Will would remember him how he was, slightly mussed plaid and cheeks warmed by the boy's simple smile of affection. It was a small mercy. He could grasp at some ill placed gratitude for the universe at that.

 _How are you, Will?_ He closed his eyes, wisp of a shadow shifting and sinking in the floor beneath his feet to join the one he had left behind. _Are you well? Are you maintaining your strength? Or has the force of your hurricane quieted to a drizzling rain staining your skin? Are you keeping warm without phantom arms around you?_ He gnawed a cracked lower lip, fingers flexing. _Will you love me…after all this has transpired between us? Or will you grow to resent our stolen time as the days grow long and your soul becomes weary? Will you wait for me in the next life? Or leave me as alone as I have left you?_

Beeps followed a clumsy press of fingertips. A lock buzzed.

“Firstly, I must insist on educating you in the proper etiquette of keeping a man waiting. Secondly…” A scold leapt off his tongue as maroon eyes swung up before slowing. “Was it truly necessary for you to come for me when he was awake?”

The scrawny grey eyed boy edged out of the room. A thick hand landed on the door to keep it from swinging closed, bronzed by sun and heat. Rolled grey jersey shifted through the frame, muscles rippling as a broad torso eased in after a shaven head. Roping muscles of a throat flexed as a six foot seven man in camo pants and combat boots leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

“There were far better options at hand...” The older man chose his words carefully, eyeing the sheer shadowy height. The reincarnation of Goliath stood before him. “Sedation among one of the top three. You have caused Will an undue amount of distress.”

A dispassionate stare of ivy glanced off him. “Shut up.”

One yellow legal pad skid across the aluminum table. A plastic blue ball point pen bounced after it. Its chewed cap remained in the guard’s mouth. The man set up a blocky plastic camera recorder, flipping open its view finder and propped it at an angle on the table. The green light blinked cheerily up at Hannibal. It was eerily familiar. He glanced down once to make sure he hadn't already been shot. He would never understand man's obsession with filming death. News anchors. Journalists.

_Species dysphoria serial killers. _

This would be less of an honor. And more of a begrudging insult. The older man gave consideration to bludgeoning himself to death on an edge of the table to save himself the general annoyance of meeting an unworthy death. The indignity of it all. He looked at the guard, sizing him up.

_I suppose if you are the best this establishment has to offer...you will have to do._

“Unless…” Hannibal blinked, head tipping to the side, channeling his voice to a low hum. “…you are handing me a pen to sketch nude portraiture of my husband I fear I have no idea what you would like me to do with this."

“Write it down.”

His chains grated back and forth mockingly against metal, lifting a fair brow. “These do pose a level of difficulty for such a task, don’t you think?”

The man peeled away from the wall. He lumbered forward, hand jammed in a pocket. The floor shook with each step he took. Hannibal watched his profile disappear behind him, knee jerking slightly. The man reminded him a bit of Cordell. All blunt edged teeth. And very little brain matter. (He had checked to see if his assumptions had been accurate.) The resemblance really stopped there. They would have been twins if Cordell had been much taller, had even the slightest will power to exercise by lifting weights, and consumed steroids on a regular basis. He filtered a wince through a glint of eyes, arm wrenched back. His right hand freed with a click.

"Write."

He twisted his wrist, laying a palm flat over an edge of the paper and glanced up. “My limerick craft is a bit rusty and altogether far too vulgar to be seen by prying eyes.”

“Start…” The man propped up his weight on a corner of the table, dark shadow falling and blocking out the wiry lamp overhead. “…writing.”

“Very well…”

A pen wobbled back and forth rhythmically between poised fingers before stopping. Hannibal nodded once. The tip scribbled across paper, pausing mid stroke. He felt breath at the top of his head. He shot an upward glance of annoyance at a block nose and covered his writing with a cupped hand.

“If you would like me to be thorough, might I suggest trying out an approach with less hovering? Or at the very least the daily use of antiseptic mouthwash?”

The table groaned beneath shifting weight.

The older man continued writing, noting how accustomed levels of low blood sugar put a slight jarring point on his normally perfected cursive. It would not be his best penmanship. He sighed. He fiddled with a corner of the paper a moment, reading it over. He nodded once more approvingly and pushed it towards a grainy rose gold watch. His watch to be exact. The one he had been wearing in Italy. An eighteen carat gold _Armand Nicolet_. Hannibal clacked his teeth together and glowered at it. Elias, Peter, and Will had given it to him as a birthday present. He grimaced at how the band screeched and stretched over sinew and bone. He supposed he would have to forgo chewing off his own wrist to escape if he ever hoped to wear it again. 

The guard leaned back with a thick smirk, picking up the legal pad and began reading out loud in a rumbling tenor. “There was once a young man from Wolf Trap, whose cock was a beauty to look at–“ A hint of peach touched chiseled cheeks. The paper thwacked furiously back on the table. “The confession! For fuck’s sake.”

“You…” Hannibal tongued at a rough patch in his cheek, eyes downcast in faux remorse, corner of a mouth twitching in the table’s mirrored reflection. “…ought to have specified. The rest of that is really quite lewd. Exactly what am I to be confessing to?”

A meaty palm clapped over his amused reflection. “The murder of Francis Dolarhyde.”

Hannibal twirled the pen through stiff fingers, gauging if the point might be small enough to pick the lock on his left wrist. “I imagine you were at least able to recover fragments of the Dragon’s demise on what remained of the footage…” He looked up, forming the last word slowly, to have enough time to gauge the dilation of pupil’s in dark green eyes. “Or are you suggesting nothing remained and all you have to go on is mildly inconclusive DNA evidence?”

Pupil’s dilated a fraction wider. _A yes then…_

“If you don’t feel like writing about Dolarhyde…” Muscles shifted away from him, dragging steadily across the floor and towards the door. “You always have a second option.”

Paper crinkled as a page was turned over.

“Pray tell,” Hannibal muttered under his breath, pulling the pen across faint blue lines of paper to cross hatch curls spilling over lonely blue eyes. “I can barely contain my excitement.”

He missed Will. He missed the falling stars in his whisper against skin. He missed his scent of knotted pine covered in melting snow and longing. He missed how a single, disobedient curl used to fall just at the center of his brow. How it would obstruct his line of vision as it grew much longer. How he might shake his head like Winston to be free of it, before pitching glasses carelessly to the nearest surface with a yawn, uncaring of scratches, knowing Hannibal would buy him new ones. Lithe and stretching like the priest's newly acquired and troublesome feline. He missed the feel of worn leather and aged pages slipping from fingertips before they might curve against his cheeks. How Will tasted faintly of rich cocoa in winters and mint julep in the summers. He missed everything about him. Even how crooked lines formed on his brow and mouth when he was angry, threatening to destroy every single cup in the house. If it was possible, he loved him more then. Hannibal stroked the tip of the pen gently over soft lips. All of his sins, all of his ill content...and he had somehow still been blessed with an angel.

“How about sharing the story of…”

The larger man’s voice echoed in the hall as he stepped out. The scrawny boy reappeared. Another lean red head followed. They grunted commands at one another. Each was strapped with a firearm. They bore no symbols or crests. They weren't police. Or military. At least not in any official capacity.

_Who might you belong to?_

A wide brimmed wooden crate scraped across the floor and in to view. As it was pushed passed him, Hannibal stared at water sloshing across the floor, running towards his denim shoes. His toes curled as it seeped through thin soles. It was ice cold. Two thick black rubber gloves plopped on the table. In quick succession, the other men slipped out of the room.

Combat boots side stepped the chair and the larger man appeared in front of him, arms swinging, and smiling. “…your attempted murder, sexual coercion, and kidnapping of former F.B.I. Agent Will Graham.”

The pen cracked. Blue ink bled out over the melancholy portrait of Will’s face in the firelight. A smudge of his right eye remained. Hannibal placed the pieces of the pen neatly in a horizontal line a quarter inch apart. He stared at blue fingertips, jaw clicking in an effort to remain quiet. To maintain a spark of wrath igniting to a single throbbing vein in his temple. Before it coursed through his hands bent on crushing a windpipe and trachea. Inside his unflinching skin, his skeleton shuddered and cracked. Men had died for far less. He kept a coppery snarl lodged in his chest. He would kill him. He didn't know when. He didn't know how. This man, his personal Goliath, would go down screaming. 

Blood seeped down the back of his throat and Hannibal swallowed, marking time with a faint inhale of breath, glittering eyes lifting. “Will _Lecter_.” An index finger twitched on paper, leaving a violent smudge. “Or perhaps you misheard ‘my husband’ the last several times I have spoken it out loud and in your presence?”

Neither confirmation or denial answered, if he had been heard at all. Silence was his only reply. Hannibal watched blunt fingers trail across the steel table out of the corner of his vision. Boots scuffed slowly across the floor. Rubber snapped. He forced his body to melt, limbs relaxing. It would be far more difficult to remain conscious if he was tense. At some point his body would take over and he would no longer be in control of jerking limbs bent on keeping him alive. But for now he had a choice. And he chose to roll his neck against an edge of a bucket, waft of cold licking at his skin, and stare up into dark eyes with a smile.

“How about a swim?”

Rubbery fingers dragged across his scalp, wrenching hair around a fist. His head hit the water. Then engulfed his face. Hannibal stared up at liquid glow of lamplight through shards of ice. He wanted to gasp. To breathe in. To choke. The frigid shock on his chilled body from weeks of cold demanded for him to suck in a lungful of icy water. To breathe deep and surrender. His vision tunneled. He clenched teeth and forced air through them. Bulbous bubbles raced towards the surface. The cold was seeping in to the collar against his neck, dripping over his shoulders, and trickling down the front of his chest. He kept his gaze fixed on the light. He felt flesh prickle with fresh bumps, sensation of water pooling at his feet and over his body causing him to shiver. His lungs began to itch. His teeth clenched tighter. He wouldn’t breathe in. And he would never, ever…scream.

Garbled tones called. "Enough?"

His head was jerked upright by strands of hair. Hannibal let his entire head hang by the roots, cascade of water sloshing down the front of his prison uniform. His chest was soaked now. He snorted in one measured breath after the next, nostrils flaring. He teeth remained clamped. He would not give the man the satisfaction of gasping for air.

“Unn…” Hannibal scoured a palm over a dripping face, flicking water away. Droplets clung to his knees. “When I suggested…we go for a swim…this was not what I had in mind. Quite refreshing though. Thank you. Being without a means of bathing has its disadvantages.”

Fingers released his hair, knuckles wrapping the table. “Confession. Now.”

“Did your mother never teach you basic etiquette of polite conversation?” The older man asked tersely, grimacing as the final remnants of Will’s sketched face dissolved. "Or were you merely raised by a half bred of nearly distant cousins?"

“We have proof of what you did. Don’t you want to spare him any further humiliation?” The guard asked coldly. A handful of polaroids spilled out across the table, crisp and fresh. He could practically smell the drying ink and chemicals. “This is your brand of therapy, isn’t it? Humiliation? Degradation. Pretty damning evidence.”

Hannibal plucked one from the pile. He willed the fingers in his hands to remain still. To keep from crushing the image. The room was brightly lit. Sterile. And blindingly white. In the corner a pair of plain ivory flat shoes came in to view, stethoscope snaked around a hand. Will was straddling a chair, limp arms slung around its frame, cheek tipped against a high back. A red welt was forming where metal met skin. Clear zip ties held his wrists and arms in place. Vivid lighting caught fire down the valley of knotted scar tissue and fading lines on Will’s back. His lip curled slightly. The volatile markings of a cane. They were not his marks. And Will did not deserve to have his humiliation put on display while drugged and helpless. Slit red eyes lifted. He _was_ going to kill him. No matter how long it took. His patience was infinite and endless. Hannibal would wait.

“Photographic evidence obtained without explicit consent or legal warrants is hardly going to find its way in the hands of a law abiding prosecutor.”

The photograph flipped through the air, skidding across the table, and fluttered to the floor. Hannibal wished he could have set it on fire. See the entire lot of them go up in flames. He would go up with them. If only to spare Will from being seen. From stripping him further of dignity to gaze upon unfathomable humiliation. Seething hatred gleamed behind his eyelids. They had _no right_.

“Let alone a judge. Is there to be a trial then?"

Pupils dilated again. _Well… now, isn’t that interesting, friend._

"Or is this more of an intimate, privatized experience of judge, jury, and executioner?”

“Keep pushing and you’re going to find out…” The guard growled, rubber squeaking on a forming fist.

“Your employer ought to train you in more effective methods of torture,” Hannibal hissed as head was wrenched back, nose tipping up in the air. “This is all very… last century.”

He sucked a deep breath in and held it. Ice water took him once more.

*

_Salt water hands glided around his torso, cold nose nuzzling the back of his neck. “How are you feeling?”_

_Hannibal lifted his chin from its perch on forearms, legs treading the ocean while he rested most of his weight on a thin plastic ledge attached to the anchored boat. He had promised Will to allow his care with more…ease and relinquished control. He had managed, for the most part, to allow the younger man to govern his well being. How many hours he needed to rest. Preparation of their meals with his verbal guidance. And even the kinds of physical therapy he should have to endure. He was not handling the ‘ease’ part of their bargain well. He was still short tempered and clipped of tone when in pain. The younger man took it surprisingly well in stride. He managed to keep most biting remarks to himself when a bottle of pills was pushed his direction. With Will pressed up against him like this, holding close, he knew a new day had risen and all was forgiven._

_“This position seems to be improving my condition greatly...” Hannibal turned slightly, running a palm up a bent neck and burrowed fingers in wet curls until lips tipped to kiss his cheek. Will nuzzled against him. “It could be a placebo effect however. You may need to stay where you are, to ensure it’s working. For purely scientific purposes of course.”_

_“Oh, I see...” A smile curved against the knot of his spine. “You do know best.”_

_The older man hummed letting his head rest on an arm once more, going slack as fingers dug in to taut muscles. “I do, don’t I?”_

_He began to drift off. The sun was hot. Will was warm. His touch soothing._

_“I’ve heard…” Fingers danced down ribs and slipped beneath swim trunks. “…this kind of physical therapy is really effective.”_

_Hannibal jolted as two fingers languidly slid up cheeks and pressed at a ring of muscle teasingly. He was definitely awake._

_“What do you think?” Teeth nibbled at the lobe of his ear, Will rutting gently against his thigh, voice a throaty tease. “I’d love your professional opinion.”_

_He gasped, arching as slender fingers pulled up the line of his cock in time to ones pressing in. “I’m not sure what medical journals you have been reading, Will, but I would…mmm darling, your hands are divine…love a subscription.”_

_“Yeah? Well, I just hope they deliver in the middle of the ocean because…” The younger man pressed a husky drawl to his ear, fingers crooking and dragging a low growl from a silvery chest. “I’m fairly certain I read a peer reviewed article about the health benefits of prostrate massage to speed up healing, but I just can’t seem to remember the details.”_

_Hands let go and in the moment after Hannibal nearly drowned. His brain rushed with dizzying need and heat. He grappled for the ledge, glowering up at suntanned legs skipping up a ladder, pert swinging ass just above them. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to pink soft cheeks with the slap of a palm or worry it between his teeth._

_“W-will…” Hannibal groaned, cock growing heavier with the thought. “Will, where are you going?”_

_“Up top to air dry. I don’t think I need these, do you?”_

_A pair of cherry red swim trunks floated down and fell over Hannibal’s face. He snatched them off and balled them up in a fist. His hips jerked slightly, reaching for the ladder, scent of salt and sex clinging to him._

_“Do you have every intention of stranding me down here?” Hannibal managed to scramble up on the platform before slumping against the boat, one hand on the ladder and the other flexing around tiny swim trunks. They would look better tied to Will’s wrists. “I took the brunt force of a vehicle collision for you.”_

_“You know the deal.” Bright blue eyes and a fringe of wild curls tipped over the side of the boat, bare chest gleaming in the light. “Have to re-strengthen your core.”_

_“William—“_

_“Better hurry up, angel, this lube is only going to last so long.”_

*

Vision and hearing faded in and out.

“ _Say it_. Say you forced Agent Graham into a sexual relationship and coerced him in to murdering Francis Dolarhyde.”

“Mmm…” Hannibal blinked, trying to focus on the dull boom addressing him in the distance. He picked at broken nails with a thumb to keep from gripping the armrest. “L-lecter. Former Agent Graham…Will…Lecter.” He struggled to form thoughts and words. Whatever he was saying was important. He felt it. “Married. Mine.”

“Ready to cooperate?” A blurred face hovered over his.

“Certainly.” The older man sneered up at the guard, raking nails down a stony cheek to leave his own mark. “As soon as you get on your knees and choke on my—“

*

 _Bedhead nestled deeper against a mountain of pillows, muddled rain searching through a forest of long lashes._ _“Were you…watching me sleep?”_

_“You seemed at such peace…” Hannibal murmured, stroking curls back with a palm before settling against a cheek. “I dared not wake you.”_

_The old timber of the cottage creaked. Gulls chattered in the distance. Morning rays of pink began to slip over the horizon._

_Will scrubbed at sleep heavy eyes, yawning. “Do this often?”_

_The older man lifted floral covers, running a hand down a thigh to touch a bandaged ankle. The swelling had gone down dramatically since their arrival on the coast. Will giggled as fingertips swept back up, swatting at his hand and burrowing deeper. He was growing accustomed to retaking his role as caretaker. The glow showed in the younger man's cheeks. Would his freckled stars taste dim like twilight or gentle like fading blue planets?  
_

_“With growing frequency.” He touched lumpy blankets where a head would have been fondly._

_“Mmhmm…” Lips melded against the center of his chest. “You’ve thrown out your interest in hiding your obsession out the goddamn window I take it?”_

_“With fervor.”_

_Hannibal melted as Will kissed up his sternum, detouring to flick a tongue against a nipple. Was it always this hard to speak?  
_

_"Would you like me to exercise a degree of restraint?”_

_“Not at all, Doctor.” Will dove from beneath blankets, mouth quirked in a half smile, before slipping arms around his and lying against his chest. His breaths became shallow, murmuring, “I’m growing fond of being your sole obsession…”_

_The older man tipped lips to curls, eyes drifting closed, and let the gentle lap of breathing waves pull him out to sea._

*

When Hannibal surfaced he was choking. On water. On lack of oxygen. Or too much of it. Tears streamed from his eyes. His face was burning hot. The floor was covered in a stream of sloshing water. His clothes were soaked. He must have started flailing. His fingers had grown numb from gripping the chair. The first word on his lips was Will’s name. He doubled forward, arm hanging limply by restraints, and watched beads of silver fall from his nose. His eyes were bright red in the puddle beyond, rippling with each drop. He sucked in ragged breaths. He could barely see. He wished he hadn't been able to at all. He looked hideously grey and pale. There was no controlling it now. His breath fogged white. Every inch of him was shaking. He felt like an intricate ice sculpture hidden in the depths of a walk in freezer. Is this how Beverly Katz would have felt if he had kept her alive?

“You can make this all stop you know…”

Fair brows knit together. Hannibal saw Will standing over him in his kitchen in Baltimore, glinting blade in hand, a palm on his cheek. Voice shaking out and coldly telling him to let go, surrender to the quiet of the stream. Abigail was with him. Her small, ivory hand tucked in a map of calluses in Will’s. Her eyes were wide, but she wasn’t scared anymore. She was safe. Safe from him. Will didn’t look frightened either. Bittersweet resignation and love wavered in blue eyes. His face and clothes were drenched in Hannibal’s blood. He had never looked more beautiful. They were safe. Both safe. From him. He could go with ease.

_Safe, my love, stay safe for me._

“Just say the words. I’ll make it easy. Say you don’t love Will Gr— _Lecter_ and you coerced him into committing the murder of Francis Dolarhyde!”

“If it is not too much trouble…”

Hannibal released nails embedded in his thigh, pushed them up cheeks, and slung back wet hair. He placed a palm over his heart to feel its slowing melody. The burning in his chest was the only sense of warmth left to him. He leaned back and let his gaze slide to the muddied illustration of Will. He touched a frowning mouth, ink bubbling and pooling to smudge love across it.

He inhaled slowly, head tipping and let his eyes close gently, voice a clear cresting wave melding with a stream.

“I would rather drown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell. If I believed in it. We would be there. This is it. Welcome back, everyone, I hope you'll enjoy your stay. (For the next several chapters of our lives where we all collectively experience pain.)
> 
> You know the deal. I'm sorry. Your sorry. I love you. I leave you bleeding on the kitchen floor. You sail across seas for me. I let you go to prison. And somehow, I am still blessed enough to have you write me these amazing comments. I cherish them. I cherish you, my dear readers. I do. Seriously, do you have any idea how much I enjoy talking with each one of you? I'm pretty sure I survive on a week to week basis just to be here with you and share our thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

Dust drifted across cement. Scabbed fingers ticked involuntarily. A dried white ring of tears and saliva etched the floor. A filthy mattress was missing from the top of the cot. Rusting springs creaked in its absence. A hinged slot flicked open. A tray dropped in. A shadow scurried across the floor on all fours. With a snap of teeth, it dove back under its make shift cave. A trail of breadcrumbs disappeared beneath the cot. Deadened glow of azure flickered in shadow.

Will jammed his spine against a corner of the cell, throwing woolen blankets over his head and around his shoulders. He ducked to keep safe from poking springs above, to make himself as small as physically possible. To stave off the chill. He inhaled softly, drifting scent a fleeting comfort. He pretended Hannibal was sitting beside him. Edges of his fingers caught on teeth. Inhuman noises escaped. Crumbs scattered over his bare dirty feet. He whimpered as the last of a stale roll vanished. His stomach ached. He curled tighter, rocking, a ceaseless motion ever present with him now. His gaze flicked to a shard of broken mirror stashed underneath an edge of the mattress. Then up to faint hash marks on the wall. Eleven days. It had been eleven days since they had taken Hannibal.

_He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead._

The younger man pushed palms over his ears to drown out the voice. It grew louder.

_He isn’t coming back. He left you._

_Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Get it together._

_If he isn’t dead. Then he’s gone. Who says you’ll see him again?_

His agitated rocking increased, arms around his knees, face buried against thighs.

“Breathe,” He pleaded softly as he began to shake, eyes burning.

_Why? What’s the point? What have you got to live for anyway?_

“Shut up!” Will shouted, thumping a hand against the mattress.

A cloud of dust plumed. Once he started to laugh he couldn’t stop. Hideous hysteria bubbled out of his mouth gleefully. He continued to rock. He was fucking losing it. It had been a little over a week and he was already talking to himself. He would rather talk to his visions than himself. Dead bodies rising up at crime scenes and walking straight toward him suddenly seemed immensely appealing. He would rather speak to them. Then he could blame sleep deprivation. Hallucinatory drugs. A mouthful of whiskey and one too many Aleve. Anything—any goddamn thing—that allowed him to pin his definitive level of crazy on someone or something else. Otherwise he was just…crazy. The silence and dark stalked after him. He couldn’t get away. No matter how tightly he wove himself into the corner. No matter how loudly he muttered in reply to his own questions. Or how tight he shut his eyes and prayed the vile scent of blood and piss was a nightmare. It was always there. Breathing. Alive. And waiting to swallow him whole.

All he wanted was to wake up.

Will let his body go limp. Allowed the attack to over take him until he seized on the little mattress in a dirty corner, alone, scared, with his own vile company. It was easier to let the panic flow over him than fight the current. Teetering gracelessly on a millisecond from unstable. He couldn’t cry anymore. But he felt the fire in his throat pricking at his eyes. This was how he fell asleep now. To aftershocks of muscles and kicking limbs. Hoarsely wailing beneath a cloak of blankets. From the pain, the bitter cold, the thing inside of him slowly reawakening. But it was the waiting, the time, he felt tearing the most deeply. Waiting for Hannibal to come. Or for them to take him. He wished they would come. He wanted it to end. He couldn’t survive this. He constantly felt sick. Unable to stomach a reality of his own making. He had barely made it through his last endearing run in with captivity. How was he going to make it this time? How long would he last?

_Think of me, Will._

*

_Dimmed overhead lights hit a thin banded collar of crimson against taut tendons swallowing. Will forced himself to look away. The collar looked like blood soaked rubies. The way it adorned and glinted in the light. It somehow made the older man even more alluring. He fidgeted on an edge of the desk. He was glad Hannibal was focused on the crime scene photographs spread across its surface and not on him. He would miss the dart of his tongue against dry lips. How he involuntarily swallowed in response. He clasped hands in his lap to keep them from wandering. His roving eyes seemed to be a lost cause. Or maybe he was just a lost cause. Was there a difference?_

_Will sighed. He was tired, muscles tight from a two hour lecture and growing more tense at a foreseeable night of Jack rumbling at him. Being near Hannibal, seeing him, provided him a distraction. His presence was soothing. His appearance was… His gaze followed crisp, tight lines of red and grey plaid clinging to shifting muscle. Will fumbled around in his head for a word other than distracting and came up empty handed. He had ended their sessions to be rid of the temptation. He had hoped it would wane and smolder out. But there was something about Hannibal. And he kept coming back. His fingers flexed at the mere thought of having something, someone to feel, to touch…to hold._

_“Will?” A thick voice vibrated against his palm._

_The younger man jumped and nearly fell off the desk. He was running a razor edged peak lapel through forefinger and thumb, eyes half closed, and drinking in the imagined audible sensation of buffalo horn buttons popping open. He didn’t even remember reaching out. Hannibal was standing alarmingly still, chin tipped at an angle, eyes flickering coals locked on the light touch. Images from the projector flashed across the planes of an unreadable face. Not curious. Not repulsed. He just stood there. Looking at him. To see what he might do next with detached calculations._

_“Uh I uh…”_ Shit. _Will ducked his head, dragging fingers through his hair and pulled at the roots to tug an answer to the surface of his muddled brain. It wasn’t as soft as the texture of the suit. Guilt and loss welled somewhere in his lungs. “Sorry? There was something on your suit?”_

Really? That was the best you could come up with? Jesus Christ. Don’t…quit your day job, Graham. Well, at least not one of them.

_Will hunched forward, arms crossed, scowling at scuffed tips of suede boots. The left one was coming loose. He should fix it. He stayed where he was. If he stayed still enough, maybe Hannibal would just… leave. He couldn’t go anywhere. The lower half of him had other ideas. A vivid display of interest being one of them. He grit his teeth. He thought he was over this, whatever this, was._

_If he blinked, he would have missed the flicker of a smirk in his peripheral. “Am I to ascertain whether that was a question or a statement?”_

_“Lint. Maybe,” Will mumbled, fiddling with rolled sleeves of his dress shirt. One of the buttons was loose. He picked at it and breathed out harshly through his nose. What else was he supposed to do? Back peddle? “Hard to tell in this light.”_

_“I had no idea you were as vigil about maintaining my appearance as I was,” Hannibal countered evenly, glancing down and brushing at the same speck of nothing Will had been touching a moment ago. A small pitied mercy. His voice rose a fraction, honeyed and warm. “It was very kind of you, Will. If you had let it remain the results could have been catastrophic. What kind of impression upon the world would I have made then?”_

_His breath stuck. The praise, false pretense or not, sent a jolt through him. Was Hannibal teasing him? The younger man wished he could clamp hands over his ears. He felt them flushing hot. A pink that would soon creep to his temples, then his cheeks, and wander beneath his button up to spread over his chest. This was far worse than pointed questions and prying insinuations. Hannibal sounded…sincere. He drew up an arm and slung it around his waist protectively._

_His reply came out loud. Not in his head. And it shook with a husky timber of a man accidentally staring at a full lipped smile, lingering on the divot of a snaggle tooth. Would he taste cool and soothing like his presence?_

_“No one is looking at your suits, Hannibal.”_

Oh for fuck sake. Why.

_Red lips parted slightly. “Oh?”_

_“I…need to…?”_

_Will pursued the only avenue left to him. The one that required the least amount of effort and explanation. And would save him from the present humiliation. Or spare him from meeting a steady gaze glimmering with a hint of a question. The one that best suited his nature. Running away. He bolted._

_“Ah, a moment please.”_

_Fingertips whisked from his forearm and caught his wrist loosely. The trace of touch burned. Will found shining false hope of a green exit sign blocked by broad shoulders. Hannibal now stood between him and the doors. Close. Too close. Rosehip and thyme clung to skin. The younger man took a step back, footing unsure, and sat heavily on the desk. He swallowed as the older man leaned over him, palms smoothing up wrinkles on his button up. He shivered. They were warm and inviting. He shoved glasses up the bridge of his nose and glowered down at his cock with a stern message to his brain. Whatever it was choked along the way as long fingers slid a hole riddled tie from his throat. It died upon his lips with a rush of breath. Two buttons slid open, fingertips brushing at his throat as the collar was turned up. He turned his head to the side, to stare at a bulb spitting overhead and tried to forget the burn moving down his skin._

_“It is only courteous to return the favor…” Hannibal advised in a low murmur, eyes sweeping over the profile of his face and then down to smoothed rhythms of knots and loops._

Jesus… _He stared at the hands. He knew every threaded vein and muscle in them now. They were practiced. Precise. Exacting. And they were touching him. He shuddered. Hannibal didn’t need touch to tie him in an intricate web of knots. He had done a fine enough job of that merely staring dispassionately at him from a leather chair and asking: how does that make you feel? If anything, he had let Will tie his own knots and admired their perfected form._

How do I feel? Confused. Frustrated. God, how long does it take to knot a tie?

 _He tried not to think about the last time another man had stood this close and knotted his tie. He had been about seven. Sent in his father’s place to attend his friend’s funeral. He had been too drunk to teach Will how to do it himself._

_“One should strive to look their best if Uncle Jack insists on you having another date with the Ripper. At this rate, he will marry you off within the month.”_

_Will choked, flush barreling down his chest, and forced out a barking laugh in an attempt to cover utter discomfort and need. To hear Hannibal say his name again._

_“Not really husband material.” His brows drew together, voice softening to a disappointed whisper of reality. “Not really…good for anyone. Not sure that I’m…good at the moment.”_

_He hunched further forward, corner of a mouth wincing. He wasn’t sure the last time he felt good. Felt okay. Felt like his insides weren’t splitting open and spilling out from his well built and practiced callous exterior. He didn’t want anyone to see the drawn lines of his face and tired eyes from returning from nightmares drowned in the bottom of whiskey. The only one who seemed to sense it was Hannibal. And he was never more than a phone call and a steadying palm away. Polyester wisped together, pushing the knot to a throat. The pressure steadied his nerves. He liked it. He let his eyes drop to the floor. He didn’t want to think about what that implied._

_“I would disagree.” Maroon eyes glowed in the flicker of light, fingers lingering on the tie. “There. A fine specimen worthy of presentation.”_

_His mouth went dry. He flushed again, cock jerking. His ears rang. The compliment hung between them, cloyingly sweet and suffocating. He shuffled closer a fraction, letting it wash over him. There was no reason Hannibal needed to lean in. Not this close. Close enough he could feel breath on his cheeks. Could practically taste him. The older man could have had the decency to let go. Instead of leaving cigarette burns of fingertips against his collarbone and neck. What did Will feel like beneath his touch, under his care, walking around in his mind? What would he taste like?_

_Taste. There it was again. A low whine stuck in the back of his throat. The idea of Hannibal presenting him in the same way he flourished the reveal of an exquisite meal made his chest tight. Strategically garnished in only the finest things and on display for all to see. To look upon. For the older man to consume. To savor. He saw the image flicker in the screen of his eyelids, laid out on the table, tracing his sternum lightly with a gold tipped knife. His body heaved to motion. He couldn’t stay here._

_“Have to—late—bye, Doctor Lecter.”_

_Will barreled passed the older man. He left his bag and laptop where they lay. Photographs of wide eyed dead girls, severed bodies, and scratched notes scattered through the air. A pang of guilt rushed to the surface. For touching them while Hannibal had been touching him. To feel a thrill of longing with the dead pressed beneath his palms. It was wrong. He was wrong. He was what was wrong with everything. He always had been. It had to be true. Why else would his mother have left him? He walked faster, skidding through the hall._

_Bewildered concern followed. “Will, your files?”_

_Did Hannibal’s voice sound rough? Thicker? Or was it just his imagination? A twinge of hope? What the fuck was he hoping for anyway? What was this? Any of this. What was he doing. He grit his teeth. Need. What if it was need in his voice? What if Hannibal needed him? He wanted to be needed. But god. What if he didn’t? His breath began to shudder. His panic started to crest, clawing free. He had to walk faster._

_Ramming a shoulder against the nearest door, Will stumbled into a restroom and slammed a stall door behind him. He tipped his head back, trying to scrape air from his lungs with the hand clutching his ribs. The attempt to hide was about as non-existent as the one of him trying to pull away. Hannibal would have let go. He just sat there. Stayed. Obediently. His hands shook. He barely managed to lock it. Like a door was going to protect him. If Hannibal wanted in, he would just ask. And Will would let him. He always let him. He pulled the tie loose on his throat, gasping. He had been free of this, hadn’t he? Had stormed out of the older man’s office with in a rage of finality and thought it was over._

“I think our therapy has come to the end of its usefulness, don’t you, Doctor Lecter?”

_He had made it as far as an abandoned stretch of highway. Anger hazing his vision. Radiator heat blasting. Idling engine muffling resentful moans leeching from grit teeth. He couldn’t help himself. He had come to the thought of swinging a backhand across a red lipped smirk and Hannibal’s sinewy hands wrapped around him. His vision had blurred for a second and in the mist he had seen something softer, kissing the bloodied split he had caused and asking to be forgiven. Self hatred had followed in a serious of panicked shudders. He knew how to hate Hannibal. It was solid and real and comforting. Most of all it maintained distance and kept him alone. He knew how to be alone. How to exist without being seen. He didn’t know how to do this. In spite of it all, he had somehow been lured back in. Allowed it to happen. Something was wrong with him. Why was he so drawn to Hannibal? Why couldn’t he just stay away from him? Maintain his distance. It had been so easy before. To keep them all at bay._

_He braced cold aluminum, trying to catch his breath. To shake off the paralysis of memory. Of smooth, silken fingertips heating his skin through clothing. Far more forgiving than anything he had ever felt. His right hand dropped and settled over rough outlines of an erection. He hissed, eyes closing. He was over this. Had dealt with it. He had more self control than this. Didn’t he? This isn’t what he wanted. It was just a manifestation of physical loneliness. Jesus fuck. When was the last time? He closed his eyes. He thought of Hannibal touching his arm, reeling him close. He wanted to be touched. Comforted. Accepted… Who else had known him and stayed? Only Hannibal._

_“Will?” Shoes clicked across gritty tile. “Are you ill? Shall I take you home?”_

_The younger man bit his tongue to keep groaning_ god, yes _. He throbbed, released, and pressed against metal once more. He needed help. Everything about this was wrong. He shouldn’t want these things. Especially not with a suspect. And Hannibal was a suspect. Regardless of how safe and calming Will might find him. Even after what he had done to him. He somehow knew his arms would be as gentle as they were vicious… and if he ever knew them… it would be his end._

_“Fine, Hannibal. Just…I need you to leave me alone,” Will ground out, dragging a wrist over tired eyes. “I have work to do. Jack is expecting me.”_

_“Very well.” He heard the older man’s posture straighten defensively, tugging crisp shirt cuffs. “Do you intend on keeping your appointment tomorrow? Or shall I slot another patient in your place? Since you fail to adhere to my cancellation policy, I would rather the polite courtesy of a direct answer from you now.”_

_“What can I say? I’m unreliable like that.” Will balled fists against the door, slumping, voice quieting, “Do what you want.”_

_Shoes echoed even after the door swished closed and stepped out in the middle of a lamp lined street swathed in luminous fog. He thought of going. Of dragging Hannibal back and drinking in grey light from his mouth. He stayed, smothering a need to follow and disappear._

*

Will scratched a hash line on the wall. A tray rattled to the floor. His one remaining signal of a new day. To face another stretch of hours. The tray stayed where it was. Glinting light beneath the door hit five of its companions, stale food untouched except for a buzz of flies. He stared at them a second longer before rolling away. They threw him in here. He owed them nothing. He wouldn’t eat. They couldn’t make him. His shoulder flinched. They could make him. But he wouldn’t think about that now. He curved an arm around protruding ribs. It was beginning to hurt to breathe. He wanted Hannibal. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. Will refused to accept it. He was going to wait as long as it fucking took. Hannibal would come for him. He would.

A singsong sigh noted. “Fifteen days…”

“I know how to count,” The younger man hissed back automatically.

“Good to know.”

“Fuck—“ Will clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes screwing shut.

This had to stop. He snorted burning breath out his nose. His leg bounced erratically. He had to stop talking. It was one thing to do it in his head. But out loud? He had to stop. He had to stop answering. For fuck’s sake. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t do this. He hugged himself tighter. A different kind of pain had slowly replaced his physical aches. The kind that left him cold and shivering, starved for a glancing moment of touch. He had never wanted to remember rattling skeletons of loneliness embracing him. He was struggling to recall the texture of Hannibal’s hands in his, on him, around him. He didn’t want to lose that. It was all he had left. He grimaced and closed his eyes.

*

_Ice clinked idly in a crystal tumbler. “What are you doing back there?”_

_“A child’s game of connect the dots.” A thin brush swirled a shoulder blade. “One of your favorites, was it not?”_

_The younger man wondered if he should correct or be perturbed his husband had described exceptional artistic talent as a whimsical game._

_Will tipped his chin to a left shoulder, blue sliding to meet maroon narrowed in fierce concentration, a dry reply percheded. “Some of us aren’t innately blessed with the creative, Hannibal. It was numbered dots and a few too many episodes of Bob Ross for me. Even then I never surpassed stick figures.”_

_Hannibal leaned away, squinting before sweeping a brush through a dab of umber and navy on wax paper, murmuring idly, “I adore your stick figures. You create them with such passion.”_

_They once had a scuffle once in the kitchen over Hannibal’s odd desire to display Will’s ‘art’ in frames in the office beside his own. Will had threatened to burn the house down. Hannibal had reluctantly sulked off. What Will didn't know was there was an entire leather bound album dedicated to his 'art' hidden in plain sight of the library shelves._

_Will snorted, curls drooping over rolling eyes. His heart felt…heavy. Weighted. Not like the one he had known before. Before Hannibal. He felt… Complete. His gaze fell down soft fuzz of grey trailing from chest to sternum, chaffed by a white sheet slung precariously around wide jutting hipbones. He considered leaning back and removing it with his teeth. If Will had to lie around naked for hours at a time it only seemed fair._

_A wolfish smile answered. Hannibal kept his gaze on the painting. Will kept his eyes on him. “Is this Mister Ross an artist?”_

_“Sort of, yeah,” The younger man answered absently, fingers trailing a rigid thigh. “Though I can’t say his artwork would appeal to your senses.”_

_“I insist you stop moving.” Hannibal pushed him back on pillows arranged at the center of their bed, nearly smothering him to punctuate the command. “I am going to make a mistake.”_

_A grumbled paraphrase breathed out over downy feathers. “There are no mistakes. Only seagulls.”_

_“Are you drunk?” The older man asked inquisitively, knees shifting as he peered over, thin brow arced._

_“Not entirely.” Will lifted his head, tossing a grin back. “Would you like me to be?”_

_“Remains to be determined.” The pointed edge of a wood paintbrush traced the inside his thigh and thwacked a swelling cheek lightly. “Now lie still.”_

_The younger man hummed, eyelids sinking, sting of pain turning his reply to a throaty growl, “Yes, Sir.”_

_Hannibal braced palms on his shoulders, leaning in cautiously, and drew soft flesh of a throat between teeth and dragged red across it. “Will.”_

_“Sorry, I keep forgetting what game we’re playing…” Will wriggled innocently, enveloped by increasing pressure of palms and teeth, leaking cock trapped between his body and the mattress. He rattled his glass in the air. “Maybe I am drunk. Would you get me another?”_

_A light smack was enunciated with a gentle squeeze of a cheek. “When I have finished the task at hand.”_

_"Wish you would finish me," Will grumbled, scowling at an innocent red silk pillow._

_Head lolling forward, Will tried to steady harsh breathing and focus on the wisp of brush strokes forming across his back. He gripped pillows to keep still. It was more difficult than before. What was once soothing was now maddeningly tantalizing, need pooling hot between his thighs and boiling his blood. He rolled hips forward to find friction. Hannibal lowered his full weight against a lower back with a hushed tsk of feigned annoyance. The welcomed breadth of him, the wet heat, radiated through the thin barrier of sheets._

_“Hmm…” Will reached and stroked a hand lazily up a bent knee, caught between lulling waves of peace and lust, the fine blur of pleasure and pain, his husband's specialty. “What… was it like when they branded you, Hannibal?”_

_A paintbrush lifted. He stiffened instantly. The younger man opened his mouth and then shut it. He buried his face against forearms. He hadn’t meant to ask. They had never spoken of it. A throat clicked as the older man swallowed._

_“Much like…” Hannibal began in a low thrum, resuming elongated brushstrokes. “…grazing one’s wrist on the burning coils of a stove. A blistering heat.”_

_Will winced, hoping his muffled voice would be too quiet to be heard. “It hurt?”_

_Paint slicked from his spine to a divot of his hip, pausing. “It was painful. Yes.”_

_“I hate that they hurt you.” The younger man burrowed deeper, brow twisting bitter resentment clenching his heart. “You wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.”_

And it was my fault. I lead them straight to you.

_“Sit up.”_

_Will stayed where he was. Pretending he hadn’t heard. He didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to be reminded of exactly how human Hannibal was. That he could be hurt. Could bleed. Could feel pain. Pain Will had caused him._

_Again. And again. And again._

_A paintbrush sternly clacked a palette. It idly swirled a glass jar of lukewarm water. A rigid arm locked under a soft stomach and hauled Will o his knees, rocking him back on flexing thighs. Splayed fingers forced his spine to arch, to keep drying paint safe and a good foot of space between them._

_“Stay.”_

_His eyes drifted closed, breath fogging hot. Will balled fists against his thighs, pushing his chest out, shoulders rolling to maintain the pose. To stay however Hannibal wanted him. Needed him._

_“Good.” Hannibal's praise warmed the seam of his neck, sliding palms down hips and up his ribs in a gentle rhythm. “I had not realized it was you who set in motion my desire to consume you and then provided the follow through to act upon the impulse to do so. Putting us entirely in the precarious hands of Jack and a group of mercenaries. I always knew you were a clever boy, but all the same. Impressive. A feat for you, and only you, to have set it all in motion.”_

_Glinting crimson followed flickering blue sliding to escape, staring at a blinking clock on the nightstand. Will bit his lip, lower back aching to stretch and release. To push into Hannibal’s arms and let his head tip back to breathe him in. Until they were one. He didn't deserve that. Not until he was allowed. He held his breath and the pose.  
_

_“Are you aware self blame is considered one of the most vicious forms of emotional abuse?” The older man whispered low against an ear, dragging nails lightly down a heaving chest. “It is likened to a form of paralysis amplifying the toxicity of our fears and inadequacies.” Breath whistled over flecks of wet paint, following a path of quivering muscles. “I bear the consequences of my actions alone. You are not responsible for their weight. Or the depth of scar tissue remaining.”_

_Will forced burning eyes closed. Every muscle in his body trembled. The older man cupped a hip and squeezed, signaling he was allowed to steady himself by reaching out. He jolted when gentle lips moved across his fingertips and down his wrist. Kindness was the least tolerable punishment Hannibal offered._

_“What Cordell had planned for me was indelible honesty…” Hannibal drew Will’s head close and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek, voice lulling and dark. “I was deserving. After all the pain I had caused you. It was biblical.” A thumb traced the scar on his stomach, voice dropping to a low confession. “I only regret the mark was not made by your own hands.”_

_“I’ve given you enough.”_

_“All the same.”_

_The words cut ties of strength holding him upright. Will crumbled to the bed, stomach curled over his knees, whispering empty longing, for what they could not change. “I wanted you to stay…”_

_He had seen utter desperation writ across Hannibal in the equations lying open upon his bed and he had told him to go. To leave him alone. To live without him. To cease existing all together. Then to exist underneath reverent glass. To peer at him when the curiosity became too great. Safe and cut off from one another._

_“You needed me to leave…” A sure voice wavered, thumb tentatively stroking a hip. “To severe our lifelines so yours might be returned to you.”_

_Pain shook his body, toes and fingers curling. Will scrambled upright and threw himself flush against Hannibal. He locked ankles round a waist as if he might be asked to let go. Lanced biting nails in broad shoulders as if they might fight to be free of each other. Coiled tight, tighter, tighter, sure neither of them could breathe. That he would never be able to be rid of Hannibal again. He wouldn’t let go. To ensure Hannibal would not leave him. Not again.  
_

_“You will ruin the painting,” The older man chided gently, twirling damp curls through fingers and kissing the crown of a head._

_“Don’t care,” He mumbled against a greying chest, choking on a well of tears._

_“You have had far too much to drink.” Glass clicked the safety of a solid surface, soft hands returning to his waist. Hannibal kissed the thin white scar on Will's forehead, lingering a moment, lost in thought. “Would you like me to draw you a bath? To clean this from your skin?”_

_Neither voiced the questions: our scars? Or our past?_

_A feeble protest shook. “All your hard work.”_

_“I have painted this scene a hundred times, Will…” A sighing smile ruffled hair, tender lips winding down tear stained cheeks. “I will make you another, hm. For now, I wish to hold you. Is this an acceptable compromise? Or shall I discover you in the inkblots we create upon our sheets?”_

_Aching blue lifted. “Uh huh.”_

_Two figures clinging on the edge of a cliff, silhouetted by moonlight bled out in inky trails of smoke and muddied blue of tepid water. Inkwells of black palm prints and entwining skin remained on once pristine sheets to cool in the night._

*

Hushed and frantic tones drifted underneath the cell door connecting a sterile hall.

“I’m not saying you should give up this pointless hunger strike. Just that if you’re going to kill yourself try something more effective. And less dramatic. You’re not fucking Ghandi.”

“No one asked for your opinion.”

“Technically you didn’t ask for your _own_ opinion. Let's be precise. And you didn’t have to. Do us a favor and put that broken mirror to good use.”

“Stop.” A desperate moan rose. “Just stop.”

“Have someone else better to talk to? Want it to stop? End it. End us. Easy.”

Two silhouettes stood close together, shuffling uneasily from foot to foot as the cell door creaked open.

The conversation halted and shadows went still.

“Is he…talking to himself?”

“Sounds like it.”

“Where the fuck is the little creep?” Flashlights swept over broken mirror. "Shit. Boss isn't gonna like this."

“Hm. There. Under the cot.”

A leather boot pushed abandoned trays covered in maggots. “He isn’t eating. She’s going to be pissed.”

“Not our problem. They said keep him alive. They never specified in what condition they wanted him breathing.”

“Hey, buddy…” Knees popped as they crouched a safe distance from the cot. Pills shook in an orange bottle. It was placed on the floor. A bottle of vanilla Ensure was placed next to it. The white straw was bent and poking through its crinkled wrapper. “Take these, would ya? Antibiotics. And for god sake, eat something.”

A gnarled hand shot out and dragged them beneath the cot with a hiss.

The guard scrambled back. A large hand lifted him to his feet and shoved him towards the cell door.

“Let’s go.”

“But shouldn’t we—“

“Go!”


	7. Chapter 7

_Will hummed softly, a shanty his father used to sing bent over a greasy engine and a lukewarm beer. It didn’t pain him as much now to hear it. The sun was high in a vivid blue sky. It was warm. He stretched against the bow and held the rail as waves rocked. The sea breeze a gentling cool of foam and soft spring time. Settling calm of water moved through him. Bright lilac eyes tipped over a shoulder with light even ringing laughter. He smiled back. He couldn’t help it. His soul was a comforting radiance. Elias had honestly never looked happier. His hair had grown. It fell in his eyes now and curled just at the tips of peaked ears. His pale skin held just a hint of candlelight freckled against cheeks. He looked like a cherub, rosy cheeked, and smiling. He also looked like a blinking beacon, indulging Will by wearing a fluorescent life vest and learning how to fish._

_“Shouldn’t…” Elias tugged hopefully on the end of his line, peering over dangling feet at the empty hook beyond. “…Hannibal be sitting here?”_

_“Oh no.” Will shook his head hard enough to send curls scattering, eyes wide, and locked a hand around a narrow waist at the mere mention. He swore he felt the boat tip playfully in response. “We tried that. It…did not go well.”_

_A terse correction thundered from behind them. “It was an unmitigated disaster.”_

_“It wasn’t that bad.” Blue eyes rolled before looking back._

_Hannibal was sitting cross legged on the deck, checkered picnic blanket spread, carving up their lunch in its center. Stacks of rolled salmon sushi and sliced cucumbers were beginning to take shape. The older man was concentrating on neatly giving each piece a feathered decorative edge. He had pulled his hair back loosely against the nape of his neck and loosed three buttons on the front of his shirt. He looked perfectly content for a man pointing a knife at Will and growling._

_“It certainly was.” A knife glinted against a thumb._

_Elias squirmed, eyes darting between the two gazes. It had been a year and a half since they met and he was still not entirely comfortable with their brand of teasing. Or amiable arguing. Or their real arguing. Which he seemed determined to mitigate despite the immediate threat presented when their arguments escalated from arguing to quarreling in the form of broken dishes and overturned tackle boxes. But he seemed to have the patience of a saint or a tax collector, and Will found himself in a constant state of admiration and awe for his unwavering loyalty to them both. They had come to rely on his presence. His friendship. His strangely formed sage wisdom blooming from such a young age. Elias provided a calm in their life, a steadying hand and intent desire to stay at their sides in the face of it all. It was strange to Will. But he supposed this was what it meant to have a family. They always stayed._

_Will rolled eyes again and ruffled a hand through hair. “Don’t worry, sparrow, that little act of aggression was clearly directed at me.”_

_“You will join your ocean friends in a moment. Have no worries, Elias, Will is an avid swimmer. Aren’t you, my dearest?”_

_“If you’re lucky, Hannibal, I’ll take you with me just like last time. Or even the one before that if you want to get nostalgic.”_

_“What happened?” Elias swung bare feet, hiding a smile behind his wrist and returned his gaze to the sea. “Did you lose the fish? Or each other?”_

_“We may have…”_

_“Capsized,” Hannibal growled bluntly._

_Elias nearly jumped out of his skin, clinging to his orange life vest as if the ocean might leap up and drag him under at any second. He stared back with wavering wide eyes and nearly dropped his fishing pole. It belonged to Will, a gift from Hannibal, and it was a beauty. All sleek black with a rolling steel plated reel. Perfect in every way. He found it charming to have someone else put it to good use._

_“We didn’t capsize. Don’t scare him!” Will scolded with a stern glare. He leaned in with a mischievous grin to whisper a tiny confession. “We may have capsized a little, tiny bit.”_

_Lavender eyes widened with a blink of long lashes._

_“Correct me if I am wrong, but is not the very definition, one of a boat belly up with a mast pointing to the ocean floor?” A fair brow rose. “Or did I misread the diagram?”_

_“Hey!” Will shrugged with a laugh. “We righted it, didn’t we?”_

_“Yes. After nearly two hours and the threat of meeting violent ends.”_

_“We’ve met plenty of ends far more violent than that one and made it out okay. Try to at least sound grateful.” The younger man cupped his hand over an ear, maintaining firm eye contact with Hannibal the entire time, grinning as he whispered, “He’s not a fan of sharks. And we have experienced worse.”_

_A thin blade jammed upright in a wooden cutting board with a twang. “William!”_

_“Told you.” His grin widened._

_Leaning out, Elias watched glimmering ocean blue of their shadows skipping across its surface, nose wrinkling. “What exactly could be worse than sharks? They have so very many…teeth.”_

_“Oh, jeez. You too? Come on! They aren’t going to eat you.”_

_“Nothing, our darling William, shall ever worry your pretty head about.”_

_Will rose an eyebrow in return. He was still not fond of anyone else's name being followed by flourishing compliments. He begrudgingly allowed them, because he agreed with most of what could be deemed complimentary where Elias was concerned. He was just as frail and pretty as the day they had first met. He made a face at the older man and crossed his arms in semi-mock pretense. Hannibal offered whimsy with rows and rows of teeth hidden behind a congenial smile._

_“Come eat your lunch.” A cork popped free from an olive green Dom Perignon bottle. “Before I allow the creatures of sea to have you. And by you, I do mean Will.”_

_“Well, gee, thanks, Hannibal. So generous of you.”_

_Elias handed his pole back to Will, sliding his feet forward to step around, and reached out for the rail to swing over the edge. “Well. I’m not a very strong swim—“_

_The priest lost his footing. He yelped. Will dropped the fishing pole. It hit the water with a splash. He snapped one hand on the rail and one around a thin waist, throwing them both against it. He steadied the shaking body against him, letting go very slowly. Elias dropped to his knees, head bowed to catch short breaths. He ran his fingers through wispy hair and left a soothing palm against a neck. He looked up._

_Hannibal was staring at him, knife teetering in the balance. He had frozen mid crouch, preparing to sprint and dive after them. His mouth was hanging slightly open. There was a flash of something across his face. Shock. Anger perhaps. The older man set down the knife. It lay next to a set of flute glasses with a tremble. With a blink, he strode across the deck and reached over. He placed both Will’s hands firmly on the rail, mouth drawing to a tight line. Ah. The younger man grimaced. He was in trouble._

_The older man lifted Elias with infinite care, cradled for a moment against his chest before setting him upright on his feet. The priest whimpered, sliding pale hands around his waist and buried a flushed face. Hannibal mouthed a gentle ‘I have you’ against his head. Will let out a breath he had been holding slowly. He was safe. They were all safe. Maroon eyes ticked to the side._

_Shit. Was there still enough time to retreat to the safety of crashing waves?_

_Will found himself hauled over the rail by the front of his shirt and colliding with a clash of teeth. A stinging reminder of how Hannibal felt about precarious ledges and ocean landings. The younger man scoured fingers in silvering hair and loosed it from a leathery band, holding on, and let his request for mercy be devoured. It must have tasted sincere. Hannibal released him with a low growl and let Elias go with a soft push towards the picnic._

_“I only see one predator here. And he is quite content to keep me...” Will let a slow fluid smile ripple on his face, adoring gaze turning up as he murmured against a frown. “Or eat me.”_

_Hannibal tipped his nose, striding across the deck. “Love is a regrettable affliction.” He paused a moment and placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”_

_Violet slid upward, brightening. “No. Only a bit shaken. Someone must have been watching over me.”_

_“Uh…” Will sauntered after them, hands in his pockets both brows wriggling up on his forehead. “I am pretty sure you mean me. You do mean me, right? And not some fictitious being?”_

_Elias tossed a brilliant grin and laugh over his shoulder. Christ, he was too adorable when teasing. It made it difficult for Will to be irate with the idea of his chivalrous act being credited towards someone or something else. The priest flopped on the picnic cloth crossed legged and beamed up at a brewing scowl. He was too cheery and bright to even look at._

_Will narrowed eyes to peer through lashes. “The hell. Where is my ‘are you hurt, my darling husband Will’ or ‘bless you, you are an angel from above’ speech?”_

_“Elias.” Hannibal folded himself gracefully on the deck and presented a hand palm up, ignoring him. “Your plate, please.”_

_“No, no. That’s enough. Thank you, Hannibal. This looks lovely.”_

_Exquisite marbled grey china was handed over with a gracious ‘thank you.’ Fine, he could ignore them too. Grumbling, Will crouched down next to them. He tugged terracotta colored boots from his feet and set them aside next to a coil of rope. He had just gotten settled, brimming glass of champagne in one hand and an empty plate in the other, when Elias scrambled up and raced across the deck. He nearly dropped both._

_“Your reel!” Elias gaped over the edge of the boat and stared at a glassy ocean helplessly. He blanched to the shade of a quivering ghost. “I…I’m so sorry!”_

_“Come back over here…” Will snorted and pat an edge of the blanket beside him with faint hint of amusement. “…before you throw yourself over the ledge and I really do have to go after you. You know Hannibal will come too. And then he’ll bitch about how we ruined his…” He cast an eye over a pale peach dress shirt hanging loosely open and tried to detangle his words. “…this. Whatever he’s wearing.”_

_“Clothing?” The priest offered, shuffling sheepishly over before plopping down._

_“Yu-huh. That… Now eat. The food, not—”_

_Hannibal shoved a plate of cucumber slices, carrot roses, and sushi into his hands. A glimmer of answering admiration rested in hooded eyes. Will tipped to his side and kissed a cheek. The older man turned his face and caught his mouth. He tasted crisp and punishing like the ocean. They slipped apart and Hannibal went back to molding a carrot into a large floral shape with perfect precision. Will lifted the champagne and paused. Elias was hunched, knees to his chest, plate balanced on them. His hand pushed it tight to his body. A bit of soy sauce dribbled down his chin. His long hair hung over his face, dull violet flashing. His cheeks were flushed. He stuffed another bit of sushi in his mouth. There had been six delicate rolls. There were only two left and one had just vanished._

_“Will?”_

_Something ugly twisted Will’s stomach sour, brows furrowing. “I’m… not very hungry. Elias should have mine.”_

_A nose wrinkled, eyeing the plate as if Will had insulted more than just the food. Had personally attacked Hannibal and dismissed every hour he had toiled over a meal in preparation for their journey. Maroon gaze slid from blue eyes to Elias, understanding filling them. A roll of sushi was balanced between chopsticks and lifted to an open pink mouth on the cusp of being devoured. Dusky rose gathered in cheeks, violet eyes lowering._

_Hannibal exchanged a final glance with Will before switching the empty plate with a full one, tone softening, “Very well. Will, you may share my portion. Here.”_

_Elias sucked in a quivering bottom lip, chin dipping, hair brushing his food. He squeezed forearms against his thighs, becoming even smaller. He locked eyes on his plate and refused to look up._

_“Elias?” Will touched a right knee hesitantly._

_A cheek flinched. “…S-sorry.”_

_Fuck. Red carnations flowered on cheeks, delicate lashes fluttering. He knew that look. He had worn that expression on his face many times.  
_

_“Do you…” He jammed his hand in a pocket and fumbled to find the phone, grinding his jaw until it clicked. “…want me to call Peter?”_

_“N-no.” Tears started to roll down cheeks._

_Fucking hell. Will nearly snapped the phone in half to get it free. He glowered at his own reflection in the metallic surface. He forced his voice to filter harsh edges to petal soft breezes._

_“I can call him. It’s okay, Elias.”_

_He wanted to put his arms around him and keep Elias in the protective circle of his embrace. The priest flinched away from his touch, fingers curling into fists. He wouldn’t look at them. Not Will. Or Hannibal. Will was reminded once again of peering in to a mirror and looked away._

_“Hey…” Will knelt and put an arm around him. He was shaking. He sighed against a shoulder, murmuring, “It’s okay. Hear me?”_

_All he had to do was not notice. To say nothing. And they could have gone back to the sun and the breeze and their careless embracing of near deaths. He pressed the phone in a palm and helped Elias to his feet. Then he wouldn’t have to bear witness to his own weakness in another._

_“Here…” Hannibal studied them with slow sweeps, lifting the plate with a tender smile. “Take your meal with you below deck. You wouldn’t want it to spoil, would you? I would be most grieved.”_

_The priest shook his head fiercely, eyes on the deck. He took the plate, fumbled with the phone, and scampered down a ladder to retreat below with a trembling voice._

_“P-p-peter… No, fine. He didn’t do anything. I…I m-miss you.”_

_Will rolled on to the flat of his back and stared blankly up the central mast at the sky beyond. He let his head fall against the deck. He was going to end up with a black eye. He had wanted them to have a good day. That was what Peter had told him. Threatened him was more like. And had he listened?_

Make sure my dove has a good fucking day, Will, or I will be less than kind.

_The vinyl picnic spread crinkled as Hannibal lay down beside him, maroon gaze sliding to the side. “That was very kind of you.”_

_“I made him cry.” Will scoffed. He closed eyes tight before forcing them open. “I’m an asshole.”_

_“He is not used to thoughtful gestures of selfless love, William. He is as sensitive at being seen as you once were,” The older man murmured, extending a hand in the space between their bodies. “One grows accustomed to being at the mercy of base need in favor of fleeting survival. Are you so estranged from the concept you no longer recall the immense struggle you faced every time you forced yourself to meet my gaze directly?”_

_He wriggled shoulders uncomfortably against the deck, palm dropping in a larger one. “Estranged would imply I’ve gotten past it.” He paused, mouth twitching. “Why didn’t you see it sooner?”_

_A dark horizon greeted him. “What was I to see?”_

_“He still eats like a fucking orphan,” Will snapped, trying to wrench his hand away._

_Hannibal held tighter, propping up on an elbow and ran an index finger lovingly over the twist of his snarl. “You sound angry.”_

_“Of course I’m angry!” Will pushed back on the hand, rolling Hannibal on to his back, and lunged forward. “Winston used to do that when I first brought him home. Hunch over the food dish, snarling and snapping, if any of the other dogs got near. He ate so much he would be sick. He bit me once when I tried to stop him.”_

_The older man relaxed, observing his fury with a kind of fondness. “Starvation rekindles the primal compulsion to attack any who might threaten to stand over a fresh kill.”_

_“Shit. See, I am an asshole.” Will dropped his head to a chest and dragged his lips across exposed skin, sighing. “I’m sorry. I forget…sometimes. About your past.”_

_“As I had hoped you would. It is not for you to give thought to,” Hannibal murmured, drawing Will flat against him, fingers pushing up a white t-shirt to splay against a spine. “I was quick to deal with the threats to my survival, and the survival of the weakest in my orphanage, brutally and without mercy. I suspect Elias was not afforded the same comfort of a protector. Our habits borne out of terror often stay with us even as we ourselves move on and evolve into something else entirely.”_

_Turning his cheek, the younger man let the vibration of despair mute from the words spoken shake against him. Hannibal pushed fingers through his hair. He melted in, letting the sun blanket them._

_“When I escaped and found a safe haven, my Uncle Robertus was convinced I was mad. He was not…incorrect. I was more feral than I was human. The loss of my family. My sister. The horrors I had seen and experienced were a part of me. I did not speak. A mute if you like, proverbial tongue cut out to never allow trauma to breathe against my lips. Snarled and snapped and grunted. I once attacked a servant for taking away my plate before I had finished. Nearly killed him. Hands at his throat. My aunt remained calm in the face of my violence, sipping her tea. She told me I might partake of her meal if I returned to sit beside her. Such a simple act of kindness, to a boy who did not deserve it, returned a part of me I had lost and gave me a purpose. To protect her.” The embrace around him began to tighten with each word. “We must all find our purpose, Will. Pain ingratiated within our bones too early never truly mends. If we are lucky, we might learn to forget its ache in the arms of another.” A pickled cucumber lifted and pressed to a mouth. “Now. Eat.”_

_“Christ…” Will muttered, dragging his nose against a sternum as he shook his head._

_He forgot how easy it was. For Hannibal to detach when an avenue was beginning to darken and lead him to places less traveled. But also how easy it was for Will to get lost in his comfort, swept away, no longer struggling against it. He let it and listened to a heart beating. He would take care of it, of Hannibal. Neither of them would want again if they had each other._

_A palm settled against his head. “What is it?”_

_“Peter is going to be pissed with me.”_

_“When is he not?” Lips curved against his temple._

_“Yeah, but…”_

_“He still conducts himself under the notion you are coveting his songbird.”_

_“Covet.” Will balanced on elbows, struggling as hands drew him closer, and pieced his best ‘leave me the fuck alone’ face together. It felt strained and altogether too difficult to maintain. “ Please. What am I? A verse from Exodus?”_

_Hannibal tipped the thought over the point of his nose and let it fall on his lips in a rippling smirk. “If you are, would you mind sharing your thoughts on ‘the sinful, earthly lurking things within?’ I am told worshiping them with ardor is considered damning to one’s soul. I cannot seem to help myself.” He rolled his head back on his neck and looked towards the ladder leading below. “Should we consult our priest on the matter?”_

_“You and Peter have a fucking problem,” Will replied flatly, rolling away. “I’m just as fond of Elias as you are. Admit it.”_

_Strong arms circled his waist and pulled the younger man into a larger crescent of warmth, cool nose pricking against his cheek, a murmur soft. “Does the sensation of loss pull at you every time you find our gilded cage abandoned for the beauty of cloudless skies of skin and rays of light?”_

_“I’m…having some difficulty adjusting. It’s new. He was ours first.” He sighed, settling in and wriggled back to find a perfected fit. The wording was possessive at best. They would talk about it later. “And despite his name, Peter is not a saint. So stop painting him with halos and shit in your mind, please.”_

_“You have such a beautiful, kind heart, William.” Hannibal moved lips up a relaxed neck, curve quirking against an ear. “I cannot say the same of your mouth. Though I am fond of it all the same.”_

_“Yeah. Okay.” Will huffed, fighting a smile of his own. “Let’s just keep it where it belongs, alright?”_

_“Where might that be?”_

_“In my chest. What? Do you need a diagram of that too?”_

_“I have several. They are called anatomical illustrations and have been around for centuries in even the most primitive medical textbooks.”_

_“Shut up.”_

_“May I at least have the privilege of holding it once in awhile?”_

_“Sure…if…”_

_“If?”_

_“If you promise to be gentle.”_

_“However could I promise to be anything else? Unless you were to ask it of me.”_

*

Will woke up sobbing. Breath wrenching from his lungs. He curled in on his side, clutching his knees. His breathing was shallow and quick. He couldn’t catch it. No matter how many times he heard Hannibal telling him to calm his mind and simply inhale. He screwed eyes shut. He didn’t want to be awake. He needed to go back to sleep. He needed to see Hannibal. To be with him. He hummed loudly. Trying to recreate the last melody he had heard the older man sing, bloodied and broken against him in the alley. Pangs gnawed at his stomach. He struggled to catch his breath. He was so hungry and too weak to drag himself across the floor towards the sliver of light. Too cold to concentrate on gathering the strength to do so.

Twenty two hash marks lined the cell wall.

_Go back to sleep._

*

_Will sat in a daze on his couch, head in his hands. He should have been sleeping. More often than not he was awake. He barely slept. A few fitful hours here and there. Somehow his body continued to hurtle on and function. It was maddening. He preferred being awake now. Not that he could tell when he was awake or asleep anymore. He could be sleeping now. Hell, he could have been dead and this was his version of purgatory. It was difficult to tell. He stared at the chipped wood on his floor. Dog hair clung to his long knit navy pajamas. Nails scratched at the door. Pitiful whines grew louder. He ignored them and picked up a container of whiskey. He lifted it towards dim lantern light. It was half empty. He poured another glass and threw it back. It burned. He set both down with a thwack. Condensation left a ring around a polaroid loosed from a stack of files on the coffee table. He poured another and picked it up. A damp halo remained around deep blue eyes and brown hair._

_Elise Nichols had shared his bed. He had woken to her shallow breathing beside him. He had rolled over in search of radiating warmth of skin and embrace. An experience lost to him now. He had forgotten what it was like to wake to someone else. To find you weren’t alone. Someone who cared enough to lie beside you to watch as you slept and made sure you woke. Instead he found her corpse, drained white skin and glazed eyes, drifting to a black crushing oblivion of blood. He had felt even more alone in the state of confusion that followed. It was fitting. They possessed a cleverness he admired. Even his nightmares knew enough of him to know to stay away. They saw him for what he was. Worth nothing more than the night sweats and terror they brought him. And he could offer them nothing else in return. Too broken, but not fractured enough to slip away. Will choked down another drink and hugged arms tight around his cold body. Everything was unbearable. He was drowning. In his dreams in the light of day. In his sweat choked sleep. In the moments he remained lucid and awake, drifting through the day as more horror was laid out before him and he was forced to look. Neither the living or dead found him worthy enough to keep his company. Not one of them reached out or saw he was slowly disintegrating behind his forced smile._

_Blue eyes traced a path to the front door, locked and keeping the one good thing in his life on the other side. Safe from him. Filed nails scratched louder. He stared at the worn rug. Where he had collapsed. Jack had handed him a glossy stack of dead girls a week ago and sent him on his way. They stayed with him. His constant companions. He had sought the comfort of a smoky dive bar in hopes to drown out the images. Five shots in a curvy blonde had asked for him to take her home. Blue veins throbbed in her golden skin. Alive. He laid her out in the back seat of his Volvo instead. He didn’t see her face. Didn’t feel the welts on his back. Just held on and fucked to feel something, anything, except a numb pervading emptiness. The photographs had spilled across the mats. An elbow to the face and a scream left him ragged, hard, and alone. He had sped all the way back to Wolf Trap without remembering how he had done so. He couldn't remember getting in his car. Then he was just there. His breath gasping, chest tight, he stumbled for the safety of his house. Where no one held him. No one saw him. And no one came to see if he still even existed. He was only a rusted tool to be used, to serve a purpose, and nothing more. No one needed him. He made it a foot inside the door before slumping to the floor, pitiful sobs echoing until he blacked out. He dreamt of dead girls. He woke in excruciating pain and headed immediately for self medication._

_Bleary eyed, Will swayed unsteadily on the couch as he leaned forward to stare at the options laid out before him. The whiskey bottle was empty. He reached for a pocket knife and twirled it slowly. The metal was chilled. His hands shook. He turned forearms and watched spindly veins throb blue. He wished they would stop. His heart felt weaker every day. It was some cruel trick or curse that kept beating. To keep him alive long enough to remind him how much pain he was in. It was getting harder to repress, to hide from himself and those around him. He flicked the blade open. There was no guarantee it could offer solace. He set the knife down. He pushed several orange bottles of painkillers to the side. They would bring him peace. It would be easy. He would just drift off to sleep and then…nothing. He didn’t deserve such a delicate end. The bottles dropped to the floor and rolled underneath the couch. Tears pricked up the back of his throat with a sting. His gaze fell to a right corner of the coffee table. Tarnished silver gleamed. His father’s old colt revolver. His old man was either still in a constant sloppy stupor or had drank himself to death by now. If it was the latter, Will wondered what his secret was. He was clearly doing something wrong._

_He knew what was wrong. It was him. He was what was wrong._

_Fingers slid around a rough grip. Initials of T.G. were worn by cruelty and time. Will lifted the revolver. It felt like nothing. There was no weight to it. He pointed it and caught the fireplace in the front sight. He had first learned how to shoot when he was eight. Tin cans lined up on a rickety fence after school. He had taught himself. A half empty carton of bullets later, his father had come home and beaten him for playing with it. When he was sixteen, Will bought his own bullets and retrieved the gun from its hiding place taped behind the refrigerator. He had managed to load the chamber before his father came at him. He had the gun pointed at the center mass of a chest before the first swing. A warning shot lodged in a black and white photograph of his mother. He left that house for the first time in his life without bruises, duffle bag on his shoulder and the weight of a revolver in his windbreaker, and never looked back. He had used it twice since then. Once on a trucker who put his hands on his dick when he was hitchhiking. And another time during a back alley mugging when walking home from the shipyard in Louisiana. He put it away after he was assigned one of his own by the police department. It had remained in various drawers forgotten until now._

_Will slipped a thumb across the safety latch. It slid noiselessly to the left. The revolver was spotted from the tip of the barrel to its hilt with tarnish. It needed a good cleaning. A better owner. A more worthy person. He drew back the hammer. It shuddered with a resounding yes. He turned the gun to catch the lamplight, dark teary eyes lost to its reflection. He considered the best way to go about it. He rolled a tongue in a dry mouth. He had choked down enough shit in his life. He wasn’t inclined to add more suffering even if it was the most effective method. He pressed the muzzle to a temple and let out a rasping breath. His hands had stopped shaking. His gaze slid towards the front door where his dogs remained safe and free from his destruction. They deserved more. A loving, stable family. They would find good homes. A faint smile touched his mouth. He let his eyes close and heard the familiar shudder of a pendulum swing. He saw his lifeless body. The blood and brain splatter across the couch, splashed across a ratty lamp shade, pooling in the cushions. He felt the flash of camera bulbs across him. He was already a crime scene. This would just allow someone else to see it._

_Will let his index finger slip over curved metal. He took a deep breath. And squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked._

_Nothing happened._

_His eyes snapped open. He shoved the barrel against his temple. It would bruise. Will tried again. Click, click, click. The sound became more frantic. Then erratic. And finally stopped. A bubbling moan of despair fell flat across chaos of empty furniture and a dozen unseeing eyes. The younger man brought the gun away and snapped open the chamber. It was empty. His own form of safety and life insurance. A hysteric laugh screeched. His mouth began to tremble. He began to shake._

_A raw scream pierced the air. “Christ!”_

_The revolver sailed across the room and crashed against a mantle above the fireplace. It skid across the floor and landed beneath the looming shadow of a sagging grey sofa chair. Will scoured hands through sweat damp curls and hunched forward. His stomach roiled. He was going to vomit. Sobs fluttered in aching lungs and broke free._

_“I can’t even kill myself without fucking it up.” Will pressed his face to knees, hands clamped on his neck and started to rock. “Fuck!”_

_A sharp insistent ring reached his ears. He jammed teeth against a knee to smother a pitiful cry and glanced up. His cell phone buzzed against the coffee table. The screen was face down, lighting up wood beneath. He reached for it out of habit. He flicked it open and pressed it to an ear._

_Flame riddled timbers of a forest echoed. “Hello. Will?”_

_“…Yeah?” The younger man stared blankly at the floor, sniffling a hoarse reply. “This is.”_

_“It’s Hannibal Lecter.” There was brief pause of consideration, static rustling through the speaker. “Is this a bad time?”_

_“Depends on your point of view,” He answered bitterly._

_“And what view point might I assume to better understand the situation?” Fingers swept tenderly over keys, leather of a chair crinkling before fabric hissed. “Or is it more expeditous to experience the situation through an immediate visual?”_

_Hannibal was getting up. Putting on a coat. Keys jangled._

_“Would you kindly give me your address, Will?”_

_Will clamped his tongue between teeth to keep from bursting into tears. He threw himself to a corner of a couch and curled up to keep from trembling. He wanted someone to find him dead and mourn him. He didn’t want them to see another facet of his failure. But he wanted someone to see him. To know him._

_“Mine. And no.” He tried to bit back the response, clip it in two, to continue to choke on everything unspoken warring within him. “I don’t recommend it. Not everyone befriends their monsters.”_

_“On the contrary…” He could hear the doctor tilting his head. “I believe becoming intimately acquainted with our nightmares allows us a path to discovery. Of who we are. And what we might become.”_

_“What if you aren’t interested in finding that out exactly?” Will shot back harshly._

_Keys stilled on a surface, door closing softly. “Would you like to come over, Will?”_

_“To talk?” Thick brows scrunched derisively._

_He didn’t want to talk about this. He wanted it to stop. To go away. To cease to be. He didn’t want to die necessarily. He just didn’t want to breathe anymore. It was too much. Too hard. Too painful. He didn’t want to exist. What was something like him allowed to exist for anyway? He was beginning to suspect his life was one big cosmic joke. His gaze lifted skywards. He hoped to Christ whatever was up there was having a good fucking time.  
_

_“Well, I have just finished preparing coq au vin, braised and simmered in pinot noir. Its generous portions might be more suitable for two. You may join me at my home? Or we might meet at the office. Whatever makes you more comfortable,” Hannibal drawled evenly, voice lifting to a low note of a b flat dragged across a cello. “I am only here to provide what best suits your needs. Was it you need, Will?”_

Oh god. _He clutched at his ribs, wincing. A threading whine lodged in Will’s throat, pain blooming fresh and hot in his chest._

_“ All of this makes me uncomfortable.”_

_A phone shifted against an ear, muffling a disappointed sigh. Will clung to it through the speaker and wrapped both hands around it. He was used to letting people down. This was different. Hannibal wanted his company._

God forbid we become friendly.

_“But…” A needy gasp was swallowed whole and shook out in a weak rasp, “I could eat.”_

_“Then I would be pleased to have you.” A dark smile reverberated. “For whatever you might need.”_

*

Thirty two marks etched the wall. Lines growing weaker and weaker.

Will scratched one elbow across cement. And then the other. His knees chaffed after in sluggish pursuit. Ragged strips of the blanket knotted together trailed after his crawling form. His left wrist was stinging and raw. He had tried to chew through it to reach the veins. He had passed out once. Thrown up twice. A feat for him given how little remained of his stomach content except churning bile. Evidently he couldn’t stand his own taste. Acrid amusement lingered somewhere in the depths of his mind. Hannibal had never had that problem. He had started hallucinating. He knew in his moments of clarity what was happening. The visions were getting worse. He had seen less and less of Hannibal. Abigail and Beverly had come and gone more than he cared to count. They had become scattered. Flashes of memory blurred with horrific crime scenes. Soft moments jarred by fractures of peeling skin and dead eyes seeping through. He was scared to go to sleep. He was terrified to be awake.

If he wasn’t collecting a prism of events to create a fractured hallucination, he was experiencing something far worse. He was getting lost. He wasn’t sure where he was. There were no pens and clocks to keep him grounded here. He tried to hold on, to auditory cues of the creaking springs and the dripping water. But they were growing faint. His mind kept dragging him back. He was helpless. He would wake to the smell of his own blood and sweat. Strangle of chains and leather returned. Screaming either in the present or the past. To find himself once more at the cruelty of Nicolas Lisandru. He couldn’t. The resounding echo of dress shoes was louder than the breathing dark. Harsh scrape of nails on his thighs. The excruciating pain before it was over. Only to begin again in another passage of time.

Will choked on a strangled plea for help. His lips were split, mouth and throat too dry from dehydration to create a real sound. His cracked and broken nails searched for crevices in the cement wall. He hauled himself up to weak knees. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His biceps shook from the effort to hold on, straining to stand. This was his last chance. Hannibal was gone. There was no one to save him. He had to save himself. With a cry of pain, the younger man stood and slumped against the wall to catch his breath. He wouldn’t be able to stay this way for long. Gravity pulled at every atom in his body. The floor invited him to rest and let the madness take his mind. His physiological functions would give out. His heart would shut down. His liver and kidneys would fail. It was a matter of time. He didn’t want time. He wanted a choice. This was his choice.

He fumbled to reach slotted bars. His toes cramped as he threw the blanket up. A corner slipped through. His fingers stretched to reach an edge. They scratched over wool, pushing it through. He lost his footing, hands snapping on the strip of cloth. He pulled himself back up with chattering teeth. He gave it a firm tug. It was steady. Secure. He molded his spine against the wall and looked up. It wasn’t high enough for a fall. He knotted an edge of blanket around his throat. He balanced on tip toes. He tested the give of his knees. He would just have to let go. Force his body to go limp. Without a drop, his neck wouldn’t break. It would be slow. Agonizing. Tears welled in his eyes. But it would be far more merciful than this.

And...he would be with Hannibal again.

Knees popped as the younger man slumped with a heavy sigh. His chin snapped upright as pressure dragged the weight of him down. His hands instinctively flew up, clawing at the pitiful noose. Fraying cloth tightened in a black gripping line against his trachea. Will clenched his jaw, snorting out breath through flaring nostrils. His clothes chaffed against cement. He tried to keep still as limp feet began to shake on dangling ankles. Red began to dot his vision. A fitting pool of blood slid through the dark screen of eyelids. A flash of numb shot through his arms. His torso began to jerk with a gurgling inhale. The last scent of Hannibal filtered tenderly inside glowing fire riddled lungs. Will smiled.

_“But I love you, Will…” Lips scoured down a neck and nibbled lightly on a freckle on a shoulder. “Would you deny me?”_

_Will pushed at the heavy wall of Hannibal’s chest moving against him, caught in the tangle of their legs and the palms pressing him against the mattress. He was wrapped in the gauze of the older man’s words and bound to the cursory spells cast against his skin. Faint morning light washed their naked flesh silver with a light patter of rain. He arced his chest up to a mouth releasing a darting tongue, holding on to a scatter of falling hair and sighed._

_“One of us has to get up…” He groaned, knee tracing ribs. “…and let out the dogs, Hannibal. They’ll piss on the rugs and you’ll be furious.”_

_Hannibal looked up, bent over a torso, and released a budding nipple between teeth with a light scrape, frowning. “Can we refrain from speaking of such things when my mouth and other pressing parts of my anatomy are upon you?”_

_The younger man shrugged lazily, biting on his lip to refocus the sting. “Just stating the facts.”_

_“You’re problem, William…” The older man slid up his body, pausing to trace a tongue against a suck mark on his throat. He rolled hips down, smile tilting at the gasp it elicited. “…is you have a tendency to talk too much.”_

_Will reached down, keeping his gaze steady with smoldering maroon, gripping both their cocks in a lazy pull, breathless. “Telling me to shut up, Doctor?”_

_A hot tongue swirled between his teeth. “Among other things.”_

_Large hands trapped his wrists against pillows as Hannibal began to drink him in with gentle reverence, bodies of ocean and tide finding one another in slow rhythm._

_“Do you love me, Will?”_

_“You know I do. So much. So ah…much.”_

_“Say you belong to me.”_

_“I’m yours. Just yours.”_

_“Oh dear sweet William…” Nails scoured down a heaving slender chest, pushing breath from lungs. “Had I only known…I might not have let Cecil put a bullet in my perfectly formed brain.”_

_Will's eyes flew open, gasping for air. He clawed at arms holding him down. Nicolas smiled coldly down at him from above, lashes drifting over choking ivy green. He brushed a cruel mouth harshly across a forehead, jerking a face up by roots of hair._

_“Did you miss me?”_

_Thump, thump, thump_. Bloody feet and legs began to flail wildly against a frigid wall to escape.

*

Matthias loped down the corridor, hands stuffed in baggy pockets and fiddled with a flat circular pill tucked against a cotton seam. The hallway seemed endless to him. Door after door after door. It seemed to stretch forever. Another universe suspended by the static of aged steel wire lights. He glanced over his shoulder. No one had followed him from the pharmacy. He had flirted with the nurse there to get the valium. He could abide by cold blooded murder and kidnapping. But suffering was something he didn’t have the stomach for. The nurse had pretty skin. Kind blue eyes. She was younger. But not by much. Nineteen or twenty. She seemed to like him. He hated the idea of leaving again on a job without at least asking her out for dinner. Not that there was any real potential for a relationship when dating a mercenary. But he was still young in age, though maybe not in spirit. There was time to change. To be become better. He would ask her out then. Darek would have called him a whiny lovesick bitch. But what did he now anyway? The man could dismantle a sniper rifle in a flat two minutes, but that didn't help where matters of the heart were concerned. He popped a scratched key in a lock on the cell door labeled twenty three on the left and turned it. What would he call him at this very moment? The cell door swung open.

“Blessed saints...” Matthias dropped the key and screamed. “Help! I need help!”

The prisoner of cell twenty three was hanging on the interior wall by a shredded piece of blanket. His face was bright red and sickly grey with blue broken blood vessels. His body was seizing violently, feeble choking noises echoing in the empty darkness.

Matthias reached for his gun. He didn’t have it. He had left it in his locker before seeing the nurse. He hadn’t wanted to scare her. He didn’t have time. He would have to risk it. Boots slammed down the stairwell.

“Hurry up, you slow ass mother fuckers! I need help! Now!”

He barreled forward and tripped over a pile of food trays. Matthias cracked his brow on the wall, skin splitting open. With another swear, he blindly weaved towards the horrific sound of spit and gasps. He jammed arms around a torso and got a sharp kick to the stomach. His breath pushed out in a wheeze. He held tighter and lifted. Nails tore at his scalp.

He grunted, ramming his head against a sternum. “For a creep that doesn’t eat, you sure are heavy.”

Batons and boots clattered around the corner.

“Aw, fuck! I told you!”

“Shit.” Darek hulked forward, rolling sleeves up burly arms and shoved Matthias out of the way. He lifted the prisoner almost to the ceiling, snarling, “Get him down!”

A weak gasp of air resounded, noose loosening.

Matthias caught the pocket knife tossed to him and hopped on the back of a guy with black and red tattooed sleeves running up his arms. He felt the absurd need to introduce himself. He began slicing frantically. How the fuck had the prisoner even managed to reach high enough to hang himself anyway?

“Hurry up!” A boom ordered.

“I’m fucking trying!” Grey eyes slanted down.

The prisoner wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. He hoped, just for a second, the man was dead.

“Come on! Faster!”

With a final tear, the blanket unraveled and broke free from slotted bars above. The body fell limply over a shoulder, arms dangling. Darek hefted him up, stormy scowl clouding his face before stomping out. Matthias hopped down with mumbled thanks and hurried after his superior officer. He peered at the pale face draped in long matted dark hair and thick beard. Was he breathing? Was even alive?

_Don't be alive. Find some peace._

They made a sharp right down another corridor.

Fingers quirked, wedding bands rattling on bony fingers. “N…n…no…”

A swinging door banged open. Darek heaved the body forward and let it slide across cracked beige tile. It rolled to an eerily still stop. White light stretched long across a row of showers doused in darkness. Another death rattle eased from white lips. A moss covered handle screeched. A deluge of cold water plastered the prisoner’s limp body below.

Thick arms crossed, sneering. “Pathetic bastard.”

The body jerked to life with a series of gasps. Arms rose to cover a face, tear stained blue widening. The prisoner begin to shake. Matthias moved to turn the water to hot and help him beneath it. They would give him hypothermia at this rate. A meaty hand clapped over his chest as his superior turned to glower at him. He stayed where he was, sliding hands back in pockets. Maybe he needed a valium after this.

“I…want…” Broken breath rose in bloom of white. “…to see…Hannibal…”

“Oh don’t worry, pal.” Darek snickered, green eyes lighting up. “Where you’re going you can see him all the time.”

The large mercenary turned and pointed to the tattooed man lurking in the doorway. He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the shower, barking out orders.

“Get to work. Both of you. Hose him down. Find him a new uniform. And for god sake, cover up the markings on his neck before we all get fired. And make sure this one—” A meaty finger swung towards Matthias. “—doesn’t fuck it up.”

With a grit of teeth, Matthias loomed over the prisoner and commanded harshly, “On your feet, convict.”

He needed medical attention. Not…this.

“Hey pal...” The slender mercenary with the skin head sidled over and rammed a chest down with his boot. “He’s talking to you. Show some fucking respect.”

Deep throaty snarls rose with a set of steel glinting from sunken eyes.

*

Folding hands across a steel table, Hannibal eyed steam roiling from a Styrofoam cup filled with a flimsy tea bag with disdain. The yellow stringed label read, _Lipton_. A fresh pad of paper and a set of pens were stacked beyond it. An hour ago he had his head held under water, happily on the verge of collapsing lungs, and now he sat here. In a new room. Still breathing. Force fed and alive. As he had been for what felt like an eternity, but was more likely only weeks. His mouth suppressed a twinge of a snarl. He had been allowed the privilege of collapsing beneath a hot spray of water and given a freshly crisp prison uniform first. It had taken three men to dress him. A low loathsome growl shook weakened lungs. They had cut his hair and carved his face with a blade to reveal protruding bone and shaven skin. They had put him here. Chained to a table. With yet more time. And a blank glow of cheery yellow and cerulean lines waiting for his confession. Steam rose sweetly against his cheeks.

With a start, the older man sent the cup flying across the room with a vicious back hand. Chains around his wrist clanked furiously. Tea bled across the paper, crinkling empty lines. It sailed after before crumpling against a wall of glass. Beyond his reflection was a mirror image of the room he was in. One steel table and stool bolted to the floor. A round black and white clock on the wall. It was evidently _7:15 pm_ on some god forsaken day. There was a single door leading in and out. In the upper left hand corner of the ceiling, a red light blinked inside a mounted plastic camera. He sat back down, slowly, crossing one leg elegantly over the other and released a heated breath. He had to maintain his composure. It was something he still possessed a degree of control over. A door knob rustled. He inclined his head, glancing back out of the corner of his eye. Keys scraped in a lock.

The lights surged. A glow of emergency red cast over the room with a flicker. Sirens blared from speakers in the distance. A wing tipped shoe stepped in. Hannibal let his chapped lips pull back to flash a pleased glint of teeth.

"To what do I owe the pleasure..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing last week's update, everyone. It was.... a week. Let me tell you. I had one of the following happen Monday through Sunday. Came down with the stomach flu. Mini blizzard. Had no hot water. Had only cold water. Had no heat. Car got stuck in a snow drift and was late to work. Car wouldn't start after work. Had a mini breakdown on Saturday night. And am currently stuck in the purgatory that is Christmas rudeness with midnight closes and seven am opens. Ahh, I'm so tired of everything, guys. And while I was being a human popsicle I wrote about not having any heat via a prompt from slashyrogue, which was actually mildly therapeutic for a bit. (http://hallofmybeginnings.tumblr.com/post/154528747204/thank-you-to-darling-and-talented-slashyrogue-for#notes)
> 
> What I'm trying to say is.... I'm sorry. So I wrote you two chapters today. And on a completely different note, even writing that creep's name from TS makes me feel icky. I still hate him as a character. Yuck!
> 
> Also, how are you guys doing? xoxo


	8. Chapter 8

_45 minutes earlier…_

Jack stood pacing outside arched burgundy oak doors, fingers tapping on the brim of a suede hat. He stopped mid stride, listening to a voice escalating on the other side. He shuffled his weight to a left foot. Then he glanced at his silver Rolex. It was 6:43 p.m. Exactly how long was he expected to wait? He began pacing again, camel wool trench coat trailing anxiously after his form. The mashed box of cigarettes burned against his chest inside a breast pocket. His eyes flicked to sterile white and black signs reading, _No Smoking._ If he had to wait much longer he was going to light one up and takes his chances with setting off the smoke alarms. He had a feeling the mercenaries would give at least some thought to shooting a former F.B.I agent on sight.

_Former…_

He ground the word between teeth and swallowed it whole. If he played his cards right, he would never have to think or say that word ever again. He would be able to carry himself with the lumbering power he became accustomed to. Regain his status and respect. He would have his badge and gun. Instead of a filing box of affects growing mildew in the basement. No one would whisper about him as he passed through halls of his former glory. Not anymore. They would scatter to their designated corners and offices and cubicles like they used to. With a single narrowed glance. He missed making them scurry.

“I gave you strict orders!” A shrill voice shouted.

Brown eyes drifted towards the doors. An alarm began to blare. Jack swore and clamped palms over his ears, peering around him. Three mercenaries in black bullet proof vests raced passed him and down the hall. He was done waiting. He shook his head and pushed through the doors. He closed them, grateful to muffle the sound on the other side.

“You disobeyed! Their deaths are on you. Don’t argue with me! Their funeral costs will be coming out of your cut.”

A phone slammed repeatedly on the desk before being jammed into its cradle.

“You should have told me...” Jack began slowly, thick brows rising.

Slim pale fingers tensed on an oak desk, reply cold. “And what was I was supposed to say?”

“You should have told me what you were up to,” He replied, ambling cautiously in the office before perching on the edge of a cabriole legged chair. “We’re on the same side.”

“I don’t have to tell you a damn thing, Jack.” Flashing blue sliced backwards through a fringe of ebony. “I brought you in on this to help. Not to interfere. I can just as easily take away the extended courtesy.”

“You didn’t have to blind side me, Alana.”

A red mouth drained white in a thin line as Doctor Bloom turned. She looked almost exactly the same. Her hair was much longer. Swept up on her head and pulled back with a set of shell combs. She crossed arms over a crème chiffon blouse, leaning back against the desk. A thin wax black pencil skirt hugged long pale legs. A triangular leather belt cinched her waist. Six silver and white gold bands of geometric shapes wound across her left fingers. She regarded Jack with the same level of infuriating righteous indignation he had remembered. Her eyes were bright, with a steely hint, a mere glimmer of the years in hiding, finally taking its toll.

“My wife hasn’t slept peacefully in more than three years, Agent Crawford, and I was not about to let there be a fourth or fifth,” The doctor replied curtly, gesturing to their surroundings. “I wouldn’t have needed to employ other means if you simply would have done _your job_ as I asked. As I paid you to do.”

Jack bristled, letting his tensed jaw rest in a palm and tossed his hat to the desk, fixing her with a level stare. “You left me hunting after spectral trails of ghosts.”

“The scales have fallen from your eyes now. Isn’t that enough? That I thought enough of you to include you?” Alana watched him down the bridge of her pointed nose, frown deepening as she spoke coolly. “If the plan failed, I would have only myself to blame and you would be none the wiser.”

_And I would be stuck being the disgrace of the F.B.I., the madman hunting the dead._

He thought about questioning her methods. Ask if she was indeed following in the footsteps of a disfigured psychopath to extract information. He had heard the guards talking when he passed. Had his own suspicions long before that and brushed them aside. If she was, this was the right place for it. As off the books as anything. Secluded. Private. With plenty of time to do as she pleased. He wasn’t her superior. Not even her colleague anymore. It wasn’t his place to ask questions or make insinuations. Above his pay grade once again. He let it go.

“Fine.” The camel coat crinkled as Jack fished out a pack of cigarettes. He tucked one in his mouth, mumbling around it. “What now?”

Long fingers swept forward expectantly. “Now?”

Jack regarded her curiously for a moment before handing his last smoke over. He cupped a palm and lit the end. Alana brought it to her mouth and breathed in, releasing smoke with closed eyes and a weak smile. He lit his own and did the same. They stayed in the silence of clouding grey for a few bleak moments, exchanging occasional glances. They always had been skilled in speaking only when necessary. They specialized in it. Survivors unwilling to echo the other’s sentiments. In the end, they had been partners in destruction and death. Until both their lives had inverted with a single crime scene.

“Now…” Alana shifted on the desk, exhaling grey, and motioned to a computer screen. “We put you in a room with him.”

Leaning forward on his knees, Jack flicked ash with his thumb and squinted at the screen. A fiery growl twisted his insides. Back of his eyelids gathered with heat. It tugged at his mouth. He glanced up with a toothy smile. He would know that grainy pale silver and blue outline anywhere.

They had Hannibal Lecter. Alive and well.

“And if he makes it out, well…” Alana exchanged the smile with a glimmer of her own. “That’s a discussion for another day, now isn’t it?

Their cigarettes glowed in tandem as lights flickered and doused the room in red.

* * *

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Jack?”

Hannibal swiveled on his stool as far as handcuffs would allow, eyelids sinking over a darkening gaze. The agent’s name tasted heavy like the bitter sting of _marror_ herbs. He was not so much pleased as he was eager. To end it. He had been the man’s prey for far too long. And the older man was growing intolerant of being pursued and confined. It was no longer the amusement it once was. It was one thing to trap and strip him of freedom. Quite another to involve Will. It wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t stand for it.

Gleaming leather shoes slid through the doors and a hat tipped. He saw the hint of a gloating smirk being reeled in. He tampered low simmering rage with a command to still the muscles in his face, washing it blank. Who would they be making a sacrifice of this night? The lamb? Or the beast.

Jack pushed the door shut. It locked with a heavy bang. He loomed in a corner of the room. Smoke rolled off his presence as he peeled out of a heavy coat and folded it over a metal folding chair in the corner. Liberal notes of a rich spicy cologne wafted. Hannibal remembered the scent from his days in the BSHCI. The woman was still with him. She was more than likely his wife now. A manila folder appeared. Jack's face was still mountainous, pocked caverns and craters, marked by the passing years with a series of grooved lines. Peppered salt was much thicker in his short cropped hair. More than anything he looked haggard, tired, body heaving sluggish motion. Hannibal took some pride in that. He and Will had caused him a metaphorical kind of death after all.

“I wish I could say the same…” The agent slung meaty fists in trousers pockets and tipped on the wall with an easy grin. “But I always knew you would end up where you belonged.”

Pushing a flat edge of a tongue along sharpened insides of teeth, Hannibal returned the amiable smile and smooth reply. “Should I be concerned?”

Dark eyes considered the sirens as red lights continued to strobe. The agent shrugged.

“Am I to owe my thanks then to you as my benefactor?”

“I’m just the messenger.”

“Alana then I presume?”

A corner of a mouth shifted slight discomfort.

Hannibal thought of Jack’s wife. Presumably a pretty young thing. He turned his attentions toward the life Alana had built with Margot. Their child. If there remained only one. Resentment charred his mouth. They had their lives. Their families. Why couldn’t they have left his and Will’s in peace? Did they deserve less simply because of who, or what, they were?

“Alana.” The older man _tsked_ , shaking his head, hands spreading with a clatter of metal before turning the profile of his face towards the blinking camera and gazing in. “Poor, sweet Alana. She must be terribly unhappy in the life she leads now to return her wife and child to me so freely.”

His index finger twitched. He had warned her. On two separate occasions. She would not receive a third. The bruise marks on his throat throbbed. Char marks of a taser lit up from when the Goliath had added electrocution to their daily routine. She had done this to him. Hannibal could accept his suffering without so much as a blink of the eye. But Will. His eyes sunk closed with a flash of red. No. Whatever affection he had possessed for her was gone. His leniency had run out. Alana knew the consequences. He would end her.

_Don’t be brave._

Jack pushed free from the wall and ambled closer, pointing to layers of gauze wrapped around a wrist. “He do that to you?”

“This?” Hannibal glanced down.

He had been too busy being drowned to check for the possibility of infection. He hadn’t been taken with fever. He could safely assume the flesh torn by the prison grate had begun to heal. Though he could not say how well or if it would scar. At least the torture had passed enough time for him to be able to put weight on his leg. The cast would have to stay for another few weeks. He could move without feeling like pain was choking him. A general improvement for a man hanging on the precipice of death.

“It would stand to reason,” Jack continued evenly before sitting on an edge of the table, glancing down at the crumpled legal pad. “Seeing as how Will turned out to be a biter after all.”

Hannibal felt a jagged smirk pull his face as he looked up in a shadowed face at an angle. “This is entirely of my own accord. Though if you are asking whether Will’s proclivities are fueled by that of a sexual nature, Jack, I’m not terribly inclined to answer. We would like our private lives to remain private.”

Muscles ticked a jaw. Ah, his favorite past time returned. Prodding the man until he squirmed. Inwardly, Hannibal allowed his smile to take hold and continue to curl until it split open his jaw, maw waxing and falling open to take off the entirety of the agent’s face. He could have lived his entire life without seeing it again.

“He just killed three guards.” Thick fingers wiped a stubble beard. “Did you know that?”

With a short intake of breath, Hannibal forced fingers to remain still on the table instead of clenching. He blinked slowly, to keep the flutter in his chest and lungs steady, not allowing even a flicker of emotion on his face. Will was alive. God. He wanted to lay his head down and weep. All he had endured. It was all worth it.

“Ah, needless to worry then after all…” The older man mused, rolling fingers and studying caked blood beneath nails. He tried to keep his tone muted to contain the inflection of aching need to know more. “Have they yet contained the situation?”

“Two. With his _teeth_.” Jack hunched forward, eyes narrowed. “Just ripped their throats out. Another he bludgeoned to death with his own gun. Can you imagine? Well, of course you can, Doctor. Hell, I’d even go so far as to say you look proud.”

It dawned on Hannibal he let his mask slip. He felt the color in his cheeks return with a kind of feverish heat. His eyes felt bright. He was smiling.

“One cannot help but feel pride…” He rubbed a wedding band fondly, airy sigh escaping. “…for the depths of love’s creation raining fury upon those who would otherwise threaten its existence.”

If Will was killing than there was enough left of him to come back to Hannibal. He would see him again. It was enough to hold on to. Until Will was in his arms once more.

“This—“ Photographs slid across the table. “This isn’t love. This is fucking sick. _You_ made him this way. Does he enjoy it as much as you do now? I never took Will for a sadist.”

Plucking a photograph, Hannibal studied grainy details printed on thick white copy paper. It was a still capture from a video recording. The details were difficult to make out. But Hannibal would know the blur of limbs bent over a body anywhere. Will. His breath caught. Even in black and white he could see blood spilling over and through a tiled stall of showers. The kill was fresh. Recent. His index finger ticked lightly against curls. The marrow of his bones stung. He wanted to hold Will. Kiss his mouth and whisper how very much he missed him. How sorry he was. He pushed the copies aside and lifted a set of eight by eight glossies, flicking through each with growing fondness. Their crime scene looked different in the light of day. Stark and empty. It was not filled with the same passion they had shared when slaying the Dragon.

“This, old friend…are the sonnets of old testament union penned in blood,” Hannibal answered softly, adoration filling his eyes as he set the photo aside and glanced up. The eyes looking back were black gravel ice. “To be fair, you did not know him as well as I did. And you ought to take credit where credit is due. I really ought to be thanking you. Without your brazen carelessness for Will’s well being and utter disregard for his mental health, he might have never sought comfort in my home. In my arms. In my bed.”

“You—“

Pain ruptured as knuckles met the older man’s cheek, sliding down his jaw, and over his mouth. He braced against the impact, latching on the table and let his head hang. He studied the fresh pool of blood oozing over his reflection. His tongue darted out to lap at the split stinging as he smiled. This was the kind of pain he had missed. The brute force of emotion. He was able to control Jack with just a mere suggestion of goading.

“Oh Doctor Lecter.” Joints cracked and popped in a hand. “It’s been a long time since I’ve let you get in my mind. Not about to start now.”

“If we are being honest, I would much rather be in your skull.” Dark, dry laughter rose. “Your mind leaves something to be desired.”

“Going to saw me open like you did Will?” Jack jerked up Hannibal’s face by a fistful of hair, fury flashing the wide bridge of a twitching nose.

He heard the echo of the man’s horrified screams breach the present from some closed off room of his mind. He tried not to think about that day. Not for Jack’s sake. But his own. He swallowed a rush of guilt. He had almost killed Will.

“Not at all.” His voice shook cold, sneer ticking at the edge of his cheek. “I suspect something far more intimate is suitable for our valued years of friendship.”

Sirens faded. Luminous white bleached the room.

 _Will…_ His heart clenched. _Do they have you, my dear one? Have they hurt you?_

The agent growled and released Hannibal with a rough shove, striding to the other side of the room. His hands were shaking. The older man kept a victorious smile behind his teeth. He had gotten a rise out of him. He swiped a knuckle over his bloodied mouth. The entire left side of his face throbbed. He savored it. All the power and strength drained in the last few weeks thundered through him now. He would channel it. He was prepared to kill again to protect what he loved.

Locks beeped and buzzed on the other side of the glass partition. The door eased open.

Hannibal felt breath torn from his lungs. He shot upright to stand, hauling on his restraints. There was nothing for him to hide behind. Not his mask or pretense. His lips parted on a weak whispering name. His walls crumbled. Emotions stormed his face. Relief. Guilt. Heart ache. And… a yawning endless rage. He watched the scene unfold on the other side of the glass.

Positioned between a column of two guards was Will. He was slumped, shuffling feet dragging with the grace of the inebriated. Hands clenched his upper arms, keeping him upright. Chains looped from his ankles to his bound wrists. Sage green of a prison uniform sagged over a chest straining to lift with an inhale of lungs. Grotesque folds of fabric draped a thin waist of an emerging skeleton. Shades of the lunar moth washed taut skin nearly translucent except for a thick black beard running down his face. Even with it, Hannibal knew every lovely inch of that face, every carved bone and stretch of muscle. It was not the same. Black circles rimmed sunken eyes and cheekbones. His eyes narrowed. Thick red lines seeped beneath a collar drawn up against his throat. Hannibal reigned in a hideous scream. Will had allowed death to hold him in the most intimate embrace.

The men pushed. Will crumpled on the stool, dazed eyes drifting near the metal table. Breath fogged the plastic mask strapped over his face. A smudge of drying blood muddied a slack frown. Distant ripples of rain drifted as wrists were secured to the table and found a glitter of obsidian on the other side of the glass. Hannibal’s breath stuck, knees threatening to give. Will looked directly at him. For a second there was a spark of recognition. It twisted to a cavern of helpless grief before going blank. Then Will saw through him, passed him, trained on some vision leading him away in the distance. _No._ The older man heard the crunch of cartilage and gurgling screams echoing in the halls of the Lisandru estate, where he had seen this version of the man he loved last. Will was gone.

He closed eyes. In his mind, he snapped free of the chains. He slammed Jack to the floor. His hands at his throat, thumbs digging carotid arteries. Tearing open skin. Greeted by a rush of spurting blood. His hands shook against the table. He would gut Alana with the blunt end of the handcuffs and drink from her organs. They would suffer. He would make sure of that. And he would hold Will. They would have to put him down. Kill them both. But they would scream both agony and ecstasy first. 

“Would you…” Hannibal forced measured breath through his blood, waiting for the screams to quiet. “…care to explain this?”

“No…” Jack said quietly, scratching fingers over stubble, head shaking. “No, I would not.”

The two guards turned. Bruises and cuts marred every inch of skin not covered by their uniforms. Will had put up a fight. They left the room.

“Tell me, Jack…” The older man lowered himself to the stool, unable to take his eyes off Will still looking through him as if he didn’t exist. “Did someone fail to mention to Will I was alive after I was escorted by force? Or exchange pleasantries with him long enough to inform him of where he is and why?”

“I don’t have to clarify anything with anyone. Technically no one even knows either of you are alive. Let alone here.” He felt the gleam of a smile fade to a snarl. “I work in the private sector now. Or maybe you don’t remember destroying my reputation, impugning my honor, and getting me fired?”

Private sector was a filthy euphemism of gun for hire. Hannibal’s mouth ticked. Alana had hired Jack. Had employed the men who hunted Will down in the alley. The ones who had cornered them. How would she feel if he tore Margot from her arms and held a knife at her throat? Would she know what it was like to hang in the balance and face threat of death against the one person most precious to her?

A slender woman eased in to the room. She wore the same protective gear as the other guards. They had sent the softest version of their manipulation and violence to lure Will into a trap. Her blazing red hair was knotted at the nape of her neck. Her skin milky white and freckled. He guessed she was about twenty. She sat a Styrofoam cup beside Will and said something. The younger man didn’t move. Just fixed the room beyond with an empty stare. A fountain pen and a pad of paper slid in front of him. She leaned in and murmured something else. Hannibal snapped teeth together. They had already broken Will. Now they would twist his pieces to wring out the confession they had been unable to drown out of Hannibal.

“I am going to speak very, _very_ slowly so as not to confuse you, Jack,” Hannibal growled, swinging a frigid stare from the glass and back towards the watchful agent. “Where have they been keeping Will?”

A snort was followed by a rumbled chuckle. “Away from you I imagine was the ultimate goal. A successful one it looks like.”

“ _Where_ precisely?”

“Solitary. Right where _you_ left him, Doctor.”

“Solitary?” Hannibal echoed, forming the bitter words slowly before releasing them. “You know as well as I do Will should not be left to roam the landscape of his demons alone.”

“See, I gave Will a friend once to survey those landscapes, and that friend turned Will against me. He made my friend a killer.”

He flexed white knuckles and glanced up. "Will was always a killer. Every crime scene you ever brought him to made him in to one. Fostered the dependency to become what he was not, until death and destruction was all he knew. You made him a killer, Jack. I simply showed him he could be loved for all he was and was not unconditionally."

"You turned Will against himself." Jack crossed his arms. "You let him die to become what you wanted him to be. Not what he was. Then you abandoned him to a fate worse than death here. That isn't love."

They hadn’t tortured Will. They had left him alone. Let him think Hannibal was dead. And allowed him to self destruct. His ever present shadow breathed out, rustling awake within the confines of his ribs. _Oh._ The older man scraped nails on the inside of his palm until it stung and repeated the motion. He would skin them alive, hang their flesh, and leave them on display to rot. If they chose to be demons, he would give them gnarled wings.

“Do you not see the madness that grips him?”

“I would say it’s his own damn fault, Doctor Lecter. He’s the one that chose to embrace it.”

Hannibal choked down his snarling monster. He watched Jack from his returned perch on the table. If he killed him now, he would have no one to play with. Bargain with. As it was, the agent had to have his lungs in tact to keep breathing. A pity. His fingers itched to ram a first down his throat and rip them out through a constricting trachea. Jack would let Will burn as easily as Hannibal once had.

“He cannot be allowed to return there,” Hannibal countered coldly, steepling fingers over a mouth to keep teeth hidden. “You cannot possibly understand what he has been through. What his mind associates with differs far from reality, I assure you.”

The agent scoffed, eyes rolling. “He seemed to be just fine with you.”

“Jack...” The older man slid eyes closed and hissed out a strained breath.

“Not a fan of sharing? Right. I forgot.”

“Not particularly obliged to having Will returned to confinement after he removes your hand, or her’s, with his teeth as you said.” He motioned to the guard in the other room without looking, tension gathering in his hips to spread up his spine and blanket his shoulders in a rigid hunch. He had to keep still. To let Jack live. This time. “He is not in his right mind. Surely you must see that simply from looking at him.”

_If there is any mind left within him. Have they stripped you of that along with your dignity, Will?_

“Oh I see him alright. Clearer and clearer with every passing day. Clearer than I ever did,” Jack replied tersely, expression turning grim and bitter. “I think he knew perfectly well what he was doing when he ripped the throats out of those men before being brought down here, Doctor. He certainly knew what he was doing on that cliff. I would go so far as to say, he knew he was going to save you even as we conspired to let Dolarhyde kill you. I will admit this is one of his better performances.”

Hannibal inhaled sharply. He had thought he had the upper hand. Making himself indispensable to the F.B.I. by harping on Freddie’s philosophy of ‘it takes one to know one.’ He had nudged each player with great care to the position he wanted. He thought he had been in control. He saw the lovely 'come hither' expression of deep blue eyes and flirtatious smile reflected in the metal surface.

_I need you, Hannibal. Please._

Will had played him. Betrayal gnawed the pit of his stomach.

Will picked up the pen. The female guard was making progress. He was staring distantly at the pad of paper. She pushed it towards him, lips moving. All she had to do was give the right push, the correct vocational cue, and the younger man would heed it. He should know. He had personally turned Will against himself. Hannibal scoured his bottom lip with a canine. The dry flesh bled. Would they try to get Will to solely take credit for their crimes? No…they wanted Hannibal. It had always been him. They wanted Will to breathe life to their story. What had the man said?

_“How about sharing the story of your attempted murder, sexual coercion, and kidnapping of former F.B.I. Agent Will Graham.”_

They didn’t want Hannibal the Cannibal. Or the Chesapeake Ripper. They wanted the man. They would turn the very thing that made him human against him. His stomach turned. Would Will betray him again? Would he even know he had until it was too late?

 _Will…_ Hannibal stared at the pen looping across paper. _Please, Will._ _Can you not feel me? I am here. Look at me, Will, look at me._

They wouldn’t just bury him the system. They would make sure he ended up dead. Then what would become of William? Would he believe? Would he think Hannibal… His mouth went dry, stomach roiling. …took him against his will? Raped him? There life together another horror to slumber beside Will. He would not make it. He would end his life. Hannibal would be dead long before then to prevent it.

“He is suffering needlessly,” Hannibal unraveled and snapped, jerking chains. “If he is indeed in a fugue state, he may not know where he is, let alone _who_ he is! He may not recognize you, or I, and lash out to protect himself.” He gathered burning breath in his mouth and held it, letting it out slowly, lowering his voice to a graveled hiss. “Let me see him, Jack. Allow me to be of some assistance.”

“Assistance?” Jack laughed. “That’s funny. Maybe you plan on helping him over another side of a cliff?”

He didn’t bother to correct him. What was the point. Nothing he said would help. He had to get to Will.

“ _Jack.”_ A low howl breached snarling lips. “I am asking you as a former friend, a colleague, to do me this courtesy.”

“Why?” The agent folded arms over his chest, fixing him with a grave stare of consideration. “Give me one good reason why they shouldn’t throw him back in the shoe.”

If he could just appeal to the man’s humanity… Jack just didn’t switch off like Hannibal could. He still cared about Will. Will was his friend. His colleague. Protégé. The prodigal son returned to him. Alana may have been calling the shots, but Jack still remained the formidable force of good intention or reckless abandon where Will was concerned. He felt responsible for his life. His demise. His slow death and rebirth in Hannibal’s arms. He wouldn’t have struck him if he didn’t still care. It was his only hope. His and Will’s.

“He was taken for more than three months, held prisoner, and tortured in a room no larger than the one they are keeping him in now,” Hannibal returned, forming each word with a slow staccato, rearranging his face to a blank slate of detachment. “I will let you determine if returning to such a confinement is your wisest choice. What kind of a body count is it worth to you? To Alana? What is his _life_ worth to you? Can you put a price on it, Jack?”

He couldn’t let them see how much Will meant to him. His emotional attachment only put the younger man’s life in jeopardy. They wouldn’t do it for him. They would do it to ease their own conscience.

A glint of crimson swung to stare directly in the camera. “Or is counting your stacks of gold, Doctor Bloom, simply too distracting to be bothered with his lifeless body swinging from a cell?”

“I’m aware Will was taken. By you,” Jack corrected, eyes glinting. “Unlike you not to gloat over your exploits, Doctor Lecter. I’ve seen the files. The initial photographs they took. I’ve seen your destruction and your crime scenes. I know you.”

Fingertips ran down cold chains. Would they show the polaroids to Will? The ones they took when he was too drugged and weak to fight them off. Would he remember who gave him the marks? Or had they successfully thrust a proverbial hot poker in his mind and given it a quick stir? Was any part of who he was still clear to him?

His breath shuddered. If Jack came close enough, he would make his move. Taking a hostage. It was his only other option.

“Circumstantial evidence seized without a warrant of two drugged and unconscious defendants unable to give their consent.”

“Imagine what else I’ll find once we officially process him, huh? Worked him over pretty good, right? I mean his body is practically a map of your crimes.” The agent drew him forward by a collar, snarling between clenched teeth. “Is that how you got him to stay? Violence? Abuse? Was it as simple as Stockholm’s Syndrome after all?”

“I may be many things, Jack…” Hannibal jerked away, disgust ripping free. “But I am not a heartless monster. I would never abuse someone under my care. And he is under my care. Will belongs to me.”

“No?” Strained laughter filtered through the room. “Is there a fine line so long as they are under your influence and not your care? Control of the mind as opposed to control of the body? Or did you find a way to wield both against Will?”

He bowed his head, crushing his right fist with the left, hands shaking. He peered at the female guard leaning closer to Will, whispering in his ear. Tears were streaking cheeks. Part of him was still present enough to hear her through the fog. The pen continued to move. What the hell was he writing?

“As much as I would love to discuss the philosophies of control and its impact on the human condition and relationships… He _needs_ medical attention. If you care for him at all, you will let me see him.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll make a meal of you?” Revulsion flashed down cast eyes. “Or is that some kind of sick fantasy of yours?”

Slicing a tongue across lips, Hannibal lifted glowing red eyes a fraction, peering through razor sharp lashes. He would not bear the insinuation much longer. Not without action. The intimacy of their violence was as sacred as their most tender entwining of limbs. He would not stand for its degradation. Verbal or otherwise. He was many things. A sadist. A serial killer. A psychopath by definition alone. But he had returned to the mortality of a man, frail hearted and weak kneed. And he _loved_ Will. 

“I cannot begin to express how many phrases I have to respond to that. A later time perhaps. What have you to lose if Will attacks me and one of us perishes?”

Broad shoulders tensed before releasing a lazy shrug of indifference. “Nothing I personally would be too concerned over losing.” Jack glanced at the camera inquisitively. “Hard to misplace a body you never found, isn’t it?”

“Truer words were never spoken.”

Hannibal caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. A delicate hand trailed sweat mopped curls and settled on a shoulder gently. His gaze jerked over. The woman was too close. She was touching what was only his to caress. Blue sparked beneath lowered lashes. She didn’t see the danger. A wrist snapped forward. Will wound chains around a throat, slamming a delicate cheek against the table. The guard flailed, nails scratching and clawing at a face, arms, hands.

“I tried to warn you, Jack,” Hannibal noted gravely. “This makes four or five, does it not? Or is there a greater running tally?”

Will held on, staring out at them, glassy eyed. He still didn’t see them. Hannibal wasn’t even sure he knew what he was doing. If he felt the struggle of the woman he was strangling to death. There was no pleasure or remorse in his expression. Just emptiness. If he thought Hannibal was dead, he might feel like he had nothing to lose. He had never taken a life without just cause to do so. The action was loosed by primal instinct to survive left to roam free. If Will came back to his senses, he knew the grief would over take him then.

Guards rushed in. A baton swung across the back of Will’s head. The woman’s body slumped to the floor.

Hannibal bolted up, snarling at the men then at Jack. “They’ll kill him, Jack! Do you want his blood on your conscience?”

Blinking, the agent clamped his open mouth closed and rushed over to the glass. He banged furiously on the other side of it. He whipped out a pistol, pointing it at Hannibal’s head before dragging out a ring of keys. The older man stilled. The cuffs slipped free from the table before clamping back on his wrists. A rough motion jerked him from the room and out the door. Jack dragged him through a narrow corridor. Agonized grunts and screams reached his ears. Hannibal began to shake from the effort to keep restrained. He needed to cooperate to reach Will. A shove sent him spiraling towards an open door. He caught the motion of figures beating a figure curled on the floor. Rough fingers latched on his collar as he lunged. Teeth glinting. He would tear apart every fucking one of them.

“Everybody out!” Jack roared, pointing his gun in the air and firing twice. “Now!”

The three men startled, flattening to the wall, wild eyes fixing on the gun and then at the prisoner being wielded. Will lay motionless on the floor. The woman was beside him. Hannibal flicked a disinterested gaze over her. She was still breathing.

“Out.”

Black scurried passed. Jack was sparing them the only way he knew how.

Hannibal hauled free and went immediately for the woman on the floor. She had put her hands on Will with cruelty masked as kindness. Had touched him with blatant manipulation. She deserved much worse. He gripped her vest and dragged her out in the hall. He dropped her body on the floor. He snapped the ring of keys from a hand. It took all his strength to leave the gun where it was. He wanted nothing more than to riddle their bodies with bullets. He didn’t need intimacy. Just their immediate deaths.

“I believe this belongs to you,” Hannibal snarled, stepping over the body and moving back towards the room. “If you act now, you might be able to save her.”

The door reverberated as Hannibal slammed it shut. His hands and arms were shaking. He fell to his knees and curled over the boy below, hands sliding beneath limp shoulders.

“Will?” His voice shook with a rush of panic and tears. “Can you hear me, darling?”

The older man slumped to the stool, pulling Will into his lap. He weighed nothing, a frail exoskeleton of broken wings. His eyes were closed. Unconscious. Arms splayed limp. He heard a rustle of breath escape from a widening crack on the mask. He hauled it off and pitched the vile thing away from them both. He hauled on chains and freed the younger man from them next. He left his own on. If—no, when—Will came to, he needed him to feel safe.

“Listen to the sound of my voice…” Hannibal begged quietly, running fingers through a thicket of a beard to touch white caked lips. “My love…what have they done to you?”

He scooped a palm beneath a head and leaned close. Someone had scrubbed his skin raw with acrid dial soap. Coppery scent of blood still remained. Hannibal shook him gently. Will remained still, breath threading. He blinked at stinging tears furiously and gathered closer, whispering _come back, come back to me, I need you, Will_ over and over against a cheek. His lips lifted before sealing over a frigid mouth with a tender kiss. He tasted weak and frail. He needed him. He needed Will to see him.

_Open your eyes, dearest one._

Lashes floated over icy lakes. The surface cracked. A fist knocked breath from Hannibal’s lungs. Will shoved. The older man fell to the floor. His ears rang as his head hit the cement. The lighter body lunged after, knees jamminghis ribs. He threw forearms up, but it was too late.

“Will! Will, wait—”

A vice grip snaked his trachea, pressure increasing with the intent to crush. Blood pounded in his ears. For a few minutes longer Hannibal continued to flail, feet kicking and clammy fingers gripping trembling wrists.

“W-wil…liam.”

He gazed at the beauty of his own destruction though patches of black tunneling in.

_Be still…_

Hannibal became liquid, melting across the floor. He choked against the grip with a weak smile. He would be rendered unconscious soon. He stroked a hand gently over dark rage, handcuffs scraping his forearm. He strained to turn his face, lifting slightly, and kissed the inside of a wrist before lying back and closing his eyes. He felt weakness return. This felt blissful. He could die by Will’s hand.

“L-love…” Lungs pushed out a last breath. “…you.”

Bruising hands fell. Will scrambled back, low terrified whine piercing the air. He hid behind the stool and then retreated beneath the table, curling round one of the legs. Hannibal tipped his chin, staring through a blur across the floor. The younger man was trembling, mouth pressed to a palm, and with the same expression he had worn bleeding out in the kitchen. A pleading terror. For it to be real. And to be a nightmare. He was shaking apart. Piece by piece.

“H-h-hannibal…?” Will shoved his face against knees, clamping hands around his neck. “I thought…I thought—“

“No.” A feeble croak replied.

Stumbling to weak knees, Hannibal crawled beneath the table. The younger man flinched, curling tighter. He slowed and rocked back on heels. He made sure to keep a good foot of distance between them. He lifted his wrists to show Will he remained chained, at his mercy should he choose.

“Never without you,” The older man whispered, placing a tentative palm on a forehead. It was hot. “Will, you are burning up with fever…”

“Don’t.” The face burrowed deeper. “I saw him. I saw—” Arms hugged a rocking body tighter. "Are you... are you still real?"

Hannibal pushed sharp fingertips over eye sockets and let out a reedy breath. Not this. He wasn’t sure he could bring him back from it a second time. The experience would be as real to Will as it was the first time. His initial reaction was to crush Will to the floor and kiss him until he blacked out. There was nothing Hannibal had to give him to ease his suffering. He started to shake. He just wanted to hold him. He wanted to make it okay. He hadn’t been there. Will had needed him. And he hadn’t been there. Again. How many times could he fail the man he loved in a single lifetime?

“Will… he is a delusion…” Winter howled through white gritting teeth. “He is no more alive than Abigail.”

He knew the moment he said it. Before a pitiful sob wretched free. Before he looked and found depths of watery blue crushing the soul lying within them. He was a pitiful excuse for a man.

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal offered feebly, slouching and sliding a shaking hand across the floor. “I’m sorry. Come to me, William. I’m begging you.”

Will collided into him, thrown across his lap and buried his tear stained face against a broad chest. Hannibal drew him closer with a knee, slowly wrapping arms around the trembling body. He clutched at damp curls and pushed lightly. Will fell forward on his knees, spine bending, and scrambled to twist fabric and hold tight to shoulders. He cradled a head close and pressed his mouth lightly to a scalp with wordless apologies. They shivered against one another. Frigid cold of the cells nestled deep under their skin. The older man didn’t dare speak. He held his breath. He knew if he did the entire structure of his bones holding Will up would shatter and he would sob against him for forgiveness. Will needed his strength, not his pity.

What had he done to them?

* * *

Alana flung open the doors to the make shift office and shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She pointed at the computer screen, grinding a stiletto heel on carpet. “I told you! You have no right to interfere!”

Jack was carrying the limp body of the female guard with several more shadows in tow. His grim expression etched grooves of a scowl. His gaze a cold gleam of a gun.

“Saving her life!” The agent muscled passed her and laid the girl in the chair, spitting fury. “Unless she is nothing more to you than a set of zeros on a check as well.”

Settling besides the door, Alana clenched fists and bit back a heated shout. She didn’t have to explain her actions, or anyone else’s, to Jack anymore. She had a pile of rubble and bodies at her feet, and what was left of a frail conscience whispering to her the benefit outweighed the cost. She had run for years. She was tired and too pissed to be afraid anymore. Her beautiful wife and children, their lives, were worth far more to her than a group of strangers. This was what they did for a living. They knew the risks. She wouldn’t apologize for their mistakes. Or the loss of their lives.

Her gaze flicked from the guards surrounding their colleague and over to Jack. He was intently watching the split screen. Grainy pixels shifted. Will slammed Hannibal to the ground, hands at his throat. She flinched and averted her gaze. She felt no remorse for the orders she had given to have Hannibal tortured. She had made peace with it long ago. It was the most effective method to get what they all wanted: a confession that ended up with the man behind bars or strapped to a chair of lethal injection. But Will. She had only meant to wear him down. She reserved a part of her heart where his lonely eyes and frail pleading lips lived on. She still cared for him. He had deserved better. She should have been more watchful. Should have gone down and made sure the conditions of his imprisonment had been tolerable. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him. She had stayed away. And now this. All she had wanted was to keep her promise. To save Will from Hannibal. What else could she do for him now?

“I can’t watch this,” Alana muttered, unable to keep her eyes from the screen.

“With any luck, they’ll tear each other apart.” Jack said, glancing back. “Problem solved.”

“My money is on the cannibal,” A brown haired guard spat, crouching next to the female guard who was beginning to come to.

“I’ll take a piece of that action.” The agent withdrew a money clip and laid two crisp bills on the desk. “Put a hundred on Will.”

The doctor’s mouth fell open. She marched across the office and snatched up the money. She crumpled it and threw it into an aluminum wastebasket. Jack tipped slightly and retrieved the bills, smoothing them, before placing them back in his trouser pocket. She couldn’t believe him. Any of them. Was this even happening?

“How can you say that, Jack! This isn’t a game.” Hands flew to her hips, manicured red nails digging soft leather. She motioned angrily at the screen, tears rising in flashing eyes. “Can’t you see Hannibal is _hurting_ Will? Have we not allowed him to suffer enough! We are responsible for this. For all of it!”

Jack blinked slowly, thick hands clasped between folded knees as he leaned forward, voice dipping to a low growl. “It didn’t seem to bother you much before, Alana, when the life was being choked out of Will with Hannibal in his head. Or is this some residual guilt knowing you abandoned Will for Hannibal’s bed when he needed you the most?”

She swung a rigid index finger towards the open doors, snapping at the guards. “Get out.”

They shuffled out of the office with their comrade in tow, exchanging glances and murmurs. She didn’t pay them to talk. Or to stare. She didn’t need an audience for this.

“Don’t you dare…” Alana planted both hands on either side of Jack on the desk, red mouth glinting as she towered close. “…put this on me. I am not the one with a livery full of broken ponies, Jack!”

Jack tilted his head, grimacing. “Then you won’t mind when Will finally breaks.”

“If he dies—“

“We’ll both sleep better at night.”

* * *

Will was too out of his mind with grief to realize what he was doing. He felt the numb shock of what he had just done seeping cold in his blood. He heard the gurgling pleas of the girl muffled in his mind as if listening through thick glass. He thought he had been seeing ghosts trailing on the other side. But Hannibal had been real. Evidently so had the guard he nearly killed.

He looked down. Hannibal was pinned beneath straddling legs, arms stretched above his head, held tight by chain linking cuffs. His vision blurred in and out of focus. The prison uniform was unzipped and pushed apart. Sweat glistened on a heaving chest. He bent his head and bit above a hammering heart.

“You’re not well—“ Breath rushed out.

“No… I’m not.” Will scraped teeth up a throat, growling against an ear. “So fix it.”

He wanted to punish Hannibal for leaving him. The older man felt responsible. He would let him. He would take every bruise with stoic reserve. He scraped nails from navel to clavicle and growled as hips lifted as fingers retreated. He wanted to be held. To feel safe. He shook his head trying to clear the underbrush catching fire. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think. How could he be burning up and freezing cold at the same time?

Ragged lips moved across his cheek. “Let me help you.”

Will jerked Hannibal down by hair, scowling. “I’ll help myself. Thank you.”

A moan formed on swollen lips. His hand was between the older man’s legs, dragging up a hard wet spot. He licked his palm. His toes curled, eyes falling closed. He tasted sweet. Dizzy waves washed over and he teetered forward. Hannibal rolled Will beneath him, pushing up on elbows. He saw agony mirrored in his eyes, warring between giving him what he wanted and what he truly needed. He sighed. With a tug on the handcuffs, the older man blanketed him and turned a mouth to the crook of his neck.

“I wanted you to fuck me, hard and relentless,” Will mused, breathing against skin. “Not pity me. I’m not weaker than you. I don’t need to be saved. I don't need you.”

The lie tasted foreign. Hannibal knew. He had said as much without saying anything at all. The man holding close was heavier than he remembered. Or all his weeks of forced fasting was catching up. But he was pleasantly warm against sweat soaked skin. Feeling beginning to return to his toes and legs. Will never wanted him to move. He touched his lips to a neck. Hannibal flinched. He opened his eyes, squinting. Were those bruises palm spreads? Will jostled him to the side and touched the marks, questions flashing in his eyes. Hannibal shook his head and looked away.

“May I hold you, William?” Guilt wracked the smooth tenor.

Hannibal wasn’t to blame. For any of it. Will knew how to take responsibility for his own mistakes. He just never had a good handle on coping with them.

“Yeah.”

He fished a set of keys underneath the table and tugged off handcuffs. Hannibal smoothed rough palms down his cheeks, kissing each eyelid, before drawing him to his chest. Will let his eyes close and shivered closer, covering the offensive inmate number on the uniform with a palm. He could have apologized. But he knew it was unnecessary. The older man would resent him for making excuses for following his true nature. Hannibal would more readily accept the blame than he would forgiveness. He reached for a cast leg and draped it carefully over his until every inch of them was pressed together.

“Tighter.”

Hannibal squeezed until his breathing became strained. “Better?”

Will nodded once. He flexed hips against a responsive outline. They were both hard. If he wasn’t so tired, or able to keep his own eyes open or lift the weight of his head, he would have done something about it. Or at least wanted to believe he would. He felt more skeletal than human. He figured he had better get used to it.

“If I asked…” Hannibal slid fingers hesitantly over a swallowing throat. “Would you tell me the truth?”

He mirrored the gesture where someone had made their mark on the older man. “I could say the same.”

Someone had hurt Hannibal. What had they done to him? And for how long?

“William?” There was so much pain in the breath of his name.

“Yes.” Will replied quietly. “But…I don’t want you to ask.”

“Will you try again?” Arms tightened a fraction, moving to wind in his hair.

A wince shuddered his heart. He heard it most distinctly there. The fear in Hannibal’s voice. The wilting seed of doubt. Abandonment. Hannibal still thought Will would leave him, by any means necessary, by choice.

He shook his head, eyes watering, voice soft. “I thought you were dead. It was…rational.”

A sharpened cheek flinched. Hannibal wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I…should have found a way to contact you. If I had lost you…”

Will slid their mouths together to cover the quivering sound, holding close as Hannibal began to tremble. He didn't want to hear the need in his voice asking Will to stay, as he always had, in his own way. He choked down a yelp as hand slid underneath his uniform and smoothed bruised ribs. He pushed in to the pressure. Gold lightning cracked behind his eyes.

“Not your fault...” He breathed against a retreating tongue, following after. “Just let me have this. I’m not going anywhere.”

His mouth moved to the brutality on his throat, lapping and kissing it away with tender strokes. Hannibal shuddered, head shifting to find the younger man’s neck and run a wet tongue along stinging marks the noose had left. He didn't want him to hurt. He wanted the version of him lying underneath the sun on their boat, eyes warm and watching Will steer them to safety. How would he take care of him here? Like this? The uniform pushed down his shoulders. Will flinched, shoving at the center of a chest, eyes wide.

“Steady, William…” Hannibal commanded softly, laying a hand on his bare shoulder. “I need to examine you.”

“No.” He shook his head fiercely, clenching fabric closed on his chest. “No, you don’t.”

A tender palm moved to cup his cheek. “Will.”

He jammed his body against the farthest leg of the table and curled in. He lowered eyes to hide smarting tears. Will didn’t want to know what he looked like now. He sure as hell didn’t want Hannibal to see it. What had become of him. What he had let happen. He felt hurt settling in to Hannibal’s eyes and it was much worse than seeing it.

“I’m sorry…” He whispered. “I don’t mean to.”

“Did they…?” A razor pressed mouth rippled.

“N-n-no. No. Too long in the dark with an overactive memory.”

A weak breath of relief was followed by one shaken, grieving. “I forced you to relive it.”

“Not all of it.” Will reached blindly for a clenched fist and pressed it fiercely to his mouth, kissing each knuckle until Hannibal released and let him kiss the center of his palm. He brought it to his throat, eyes closing as fingers flexed. “Here. Help me…you said you would. So help me.”

Blood red eyes faded to black. “Are you asking me to kill you, Will?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! (Though I think most of you clever hawks had this one figured out.)
> 
> A short one this week. (Would it be possible to gather our resources and buy me an actual immune system off the black market for the holidays?)
> 
> Miss you, guys. Your comments are better than this chicken soup. xo


	9. Chapter 9

Hannibal scoured fingers down blotchy red left by a noose. Hostility made his skin crawl and fell forward with the length of a suffocating shadow. His chest heaved with emotions warring within. Would Will really be so cruel as to ask him to finish what he could not? When fate and circumstance had denied them twice already?

Blue eyes widened. The question resounded between them in the mist of falling rain and glass. Brows twitched several expressions at once. Consideration. Fear. A pitiful ache. Will shook his head slowly, mouthing the word ‘no.’ Blue eyes darted away. He pulled the uniform down thinning arms as if peeling off a layer of dead skin. It clung to every protruding angle and tangled around a bony torso. The younger man lowered pitiful wavering eyes and drew in a bottom lip. His skin stretched thin on stark ivory ribs, hollowing over the pit of his stomach. He looked empty.

The older man gripped a soft spot on his cast until it burned. Will had wanted his touch. Both gentle and medical. His help. Not his accusations. Hannibal was uncertain if he would be able to touch Will without hurting him. Had he ever been able to do so? This was his doing. His responsibility. He dragged a shaking hand over his mouth to stifle another apology and reached out. A trembling palm slid against his. They ignored the way they both flinched, forced to revisit their past. His moving fingers felt sluggish as if tracing them through forceful currents. Their shadows lingered against one another on the cramped bathroom sink when Hannibal had first peeled horror free from the younger man’s dead skin. He stared at a leg of the table as he undressed him, rolling the uniform carefully against hips. After he had spent all those months not looking, not touching, he wasn’t sure he could bear to see the rest.

“You can’t examine me if you won’t look…” A tangled thread of softness spoke.

_And if I do not wish to see what I have let you become?  
_

Hannibal raised his eyes. Will stared at the floor, hands balled in the material against his waist to keep from moving. He was a wisp of translucent skin and bone. He felt a hideous hunger of his own return. He knew what starvation looked like. Felt like. Burning from the inside out as life cruelly clung to each breath. What was left of the crumpled boy was covered in bruises and chrysanthemums of split blood vessels. The icy rattling of Death had caressed every part of him with infinite care and thorough attention. A battered field of violets crushed beneath muddied boot prints twined from a sixth rib to the fleshy hollow of a swallowing throat. Angled swings of a baton left streaks of goldenrod against a hip to the beginning bend of a thigh, sliding beneath rough twill cotton. He hooked a hand around a neck, pulling until it bent to his will. He swabbed fingers against the crown of a head. He drew fingertips to the light. They were covered in molten red.

Legs drew up against a chest, arms encircling them. The older man’s shadow pitched forward, darkening wavering pools of blue below. Will shrank. Hannibal became aware the deep snarling he was hearing emanated from the back of his throat. He would never gently lay his husband to rest in the healing salts of the dead sea and soothe his body with embrace ever again. His gaze fell across the gaunt figure once more and hissed. They had almost taken Will. He would have lain him in a shallow unmarked grave. He might still do so.

He pushed away and rose, flattening aching palms to the table. His arms shook. He left the younger man where he was in hiding and let visions glaze across the glassy surface beyond. He saw his first victim clearly painted upon an Autumn afternoon, roped to a tree and pulley. Heard his shrieks and begging before a keen whistle, pressure splitting the body in two. He had been a boy then. Vengeance had not brought Mischa back. But he had learned to hunt. He scraped knuckles across metal. He would do so again. One by one. The men who had done this to Will did not deserve the complexity of design. They just needed to die. And he had time. Plenty of time. He choked down a rush of sobs and hunched forward. He would not last long in this place without Will. And he should have been without him. He should have made him run. How many books did he need to fill, page by page of equations, to fix this? To fix him? To fix everything.

Timid fingertips touched the small of his back.

“What have I done to you to allow this?” Hannibal snarled at his own reflection.

“You didn’t…do this to me.” Broken whispers fluttered against his shoulder as a nose pressed to his spine. “I don’t want to live without you. I wasn’t asking you to…”

Whirling around, Hannibal snared a waist and trapped Will, encircling arms tightening until he cried out and tears pricked lashes sweeping up. He prayed for learned tenderness in his limbs to return and instead clutched tighter to the wounded. He kissed parched lips until they bled. He wanted to chase after the tiny pained sound and tear it out, seeding spindly wide leaves and dainty white petals of _datura_ within to return soft visions of delirium. He left a bite mark on a chest where a bit of unmarred skin remained to reclaim. He could open him up, twine reverent gold of _scotch broom_ and dried thistles to the ghastly beating heart within to bring peace. A hand wound in his hair to hold tight and he tore it free, cupping it between palms to kiss each battered knuckle, eyes closed. His lips brushed over something rough as he worked down a wrist. The tip of his tongue scratched against a loop. Then another.

“What did they do to you, Hannibal?” Whimpers burrowed against the crook of his neck, lips lifting to drag each sting of raw flesh to a kindling throb. “They took you. What did they do?”

“I cannot spare you from what afflicts you inside these walls, Will…” The older man growled against an ear, pushing his throat against teeth to bring back the electricity that had caused each mark. “…but I can keep you from seeing the horrors that come for me.”

“That’s not fa—ah!“

Hannibal’s eyelids slid open. Will’s skin was a gauzy white of starlight, hand clamped over a grimace. He eased open his mouth and turned his head to find what he had caught with a nip of teeth. A deep gash of fraying skin and muscle was drawn from a lunate bone of the wrist to the sunken radius. The older man snatched the forearm closer, seeping monster breathing out trails of smoke. He heard the scrape of teeth chewing. Black wiry retention stitches sutured flayed flesh. It was done poorly. His curling lips bent to tear them free. The arm he was holding jerked with a stifled gasp.

“Don’t!” Will tripped backwards, landing an edge of the table.

“I thought…” The older man’s voice dropped to ocean waves rushing over weathered statues, drawing Will in inch by inch by a fistful of hair until their lips nearly touched. “…you had set this foolish impulse aside? Was once not enough?” Hannibal gripped at scar tissue in Will’s arm until he winced. “Or are you intent on suffocating me with _every_ facet of our murky past!”

He dragged a harsh thumb up the gash.. If he had been successful, he would have bled out in a matter of minutes.

Will tipped his face toward the ceiling, color draining from tip of nose to navel, letting out a shaky breath. “Evidently…so.”

“Do you no longer deem me worthy of more than a childish retort?”

“What’s the point? I can’t change it.”

Hannibal wanted to shove Will away. Send him sprawling face down and finish painting his body in bruises. He placed him delicately on the table and put it between them. The only walls he seemed capable of constructing now were physical ones. He walked towards the glass, hands jammed in pockets, and stared out at the empty room. Where he had prayed for nothing more than to be seen and bring Will rushing to open arms. Every time he had laid a hand on the younger man here it had torn his chest open and exposed the frailty Will had lovingly grown within him. Why didn’t he understand? Did he wish for them to part in matching body bags? His lips flinched. Or did he simply wish to be alone?

“Did I…” Will inhaled quietly. “…kill her?”

He could hear guilt wavering just beneath the surface. He despised the sentiment. Even more so in the baritone of a wilting voice. There was no remorse for what Will had nearly done to him. Left him. Alone to face his own mortality and suffering. But enough to resonate for an absolute stranger. Who deserved his violence. His retribution. For a moment, Hannibal wished Will had killed her.

“ _No_.” Harsh rippling lines ceased.

“I think…I think I killed someone. He helped me. Or tried to…I think I killed him anyway…” Will said softly, wrapping arms around his waist, bowing forward to gaze at the floor. “There might have been another. I’m not…sure. What did I do, Hannibal?”

Maroon eyes followed blue green flashes of glass. He watched a rigid spine unfurl as Will folded over the top of the table to lie down. Blue glanced back. There were tears in his eyes. The younger man was looking to him for reassurance. He wanted Hannibal to guide him. To tell him it was wrong. To caress the weary soul hiding within of the man who once strove to find goodness in the world around him. He wanted to describe in vivid detail the stories Jack had spun for him and watch a vivid imagination choke the life from Will, until he gasped for Hannibal to hold him, to take it all away as he once had. The older man wanted to shout there was no good, no evil, no morality within this world to embrace him with kindness. What he had was standing with him in this room. Hannibal was not good. He had killed. He would kill again. And he would feel nothing for their lives or the lives they left behind. He watched the red line shift as a throat swallowed and clenched fists. The only good he had ever known had tried to take his own life and remained as unapologetic as Hannibal was. Will might as well have finished strangling him. Turned him in and left him to rot. The younger man would be free of him then. There was no cure, no soft words to be spoken, to heal Death.

“You survived,” The older man finally returned curtly. “Do not cloak yourself with a mourning shroud, William. They do not deserve grief. Only your fury. A man can survive upon anger far longer than he can on grief.”

“And you?” Will’s reflection watched warily as Hannibal drew free of their past etched in the glass and came towards him. “A man can catch fire. Rage can burn him up.”

“I have walked through flames before. I will survive.” Hannibal stood between knees and gazed down coldly. “If only to bring death to each and every one of them.”

“You can’t mean—“

A firm palm pinned a chest against the table, pushing out breath. “This is not an open forum for discussion.”

“I…” Will let his voice trail off, tongue flicking out.

Hannibal’s throat tightened as he watched vivid pink dawn across cheeks then flush down a trembling chest. He pressed harder earning a quiet groan. A quickening heartbeat fluttered against his fingertips. The younger man was frail and too weak to fight back. When had he touched Will last? He deserved to lie peacefully in his arms, cradled in warmth and tender kisses. He was too light headed to hide his cravings and push away. He tiptoed farther across the fine line of bloodlust and slid a hand up a knee.

The older man leaned closer, rapid breath roaring in his ears. His gaze followed a thicket of hair against a navel adorned by a scratching zipper. He inhaled a hint of salty arousal. He could reach down. Unzip the last few inches and find a glistening pink cock to taste. Bring Will to the edge, begging, and demand an apology before finishing him. They stared at one another though half sunken gazes. A pink mouth unhinged with a low whine as fingertips gripped thighs. He longed to strip him of the uniform, peel bones from his skin, and mend the wounds beneath with trace of his tongue. Both his and the others.

_Dismantled. I will carry all your bloodied parts with ease and infinite more care than I have ever offered you as a whole._

The blink of a prying red light heat the back of his neck.

“As much as I find your ardor appealing…” Hannibal noted, growl deepening as Will dragged him forward by the uniform. “I am adverse to the idea of filming a sex tape.”

A zipper whirred down, palm pushing in after. “Are you adverse to the idea as a whole?” Will murmured against an ear, nails twisting chest hair. “Or just when I’m playing the starring role?”

“When you have healed…” The older man gasped. He pushed wrists against the table and straightened. “We might discuss it then.”

The older man forcibly threw himself back over the invisible line and clung to crumbling ground beneath. He tore his gaze from sighing lips, hands sliding up to slot their fingers together. He winched as Will held tight, brushing a light kiss over a scowl. He wanted to resist. His entire body was pulled by the gravitation of a single touch. He fell forward, burrowing his face against a neck and tried to kiss away the offensive red with heated foreign murmurs. Unsteady fingers slid up his back and held on to shoulders to keep him close. Crumpled yellow caught his eye. Hannibal lifted his head slightly. He stared at the pad of paper until his vision went fuzzy.

“You want to know?” Blue followed his gaze, brow lifting. “You’re curious.”

Hannibal brushed at a matted beard and cheeks until Will thrust his chin up, eyelids fluttering shut. The sigh took away the painful sound of his sweet voice. The older man would never truly be rid of it. A tremor of uncertainty shook through him. He watched the strained rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful. As tranquil and shivering as when Hannibal had drawn him close, cool skinned and doe eyed, and cupped the side of his face in that fatal night in the kitchen. He could forgive him. Couldn’t he?

_Can I? Am I capable of it?_

“Sheer curiosity does not provide me with a right to delve into that which you would rather I not know, Will.”

Will opened concerned eyes, registering the arms shaking around him. Pupils dilated wide. He knew this part of the man holding him. The younger man lay perfectly still, gnawing at a quivering mouth. It drew to a soft line of acceptance. Hannibal wanted to bite it from his face and never see it again. He had stood by in the past and observed the flirtation with minimal interference. He had nearly offered Will’s hand in marriage to it once. They had both given it their hearts at one point, though he had not done so entirely without selfish reasons. Heated breath flared his nostrils. But now it would end. Will would end this deepening infatuation with Death. Or he would end them both.

“Not any more?” Fingers flexed against numbing circulation.

Red eyes lifted as Hannibal crushed forearms. “No...”

“So.” Will crooked his head to the side, glancing down with mild curiosity at a gnarled hand reaching for his throat. “This is your solution then?”

“It seems suitable.”

“It does.” There was a long pause. “But you aren’t interested in giving in to my request. You just don’t want anyone else to have me. I’m not theirs to punish. I’m yours.”

With a snap of teeth, Hannibal shoved away and sat heavily on the stool. He looked at his upturned palms with a glimmer of hate. They were responsible for so much destruction. What good had touched them? He felt the sensation of skin gilded in sunlight and sea. Except maybe Will.

A pad of paper thwacked against his chest. “Read it.”

When Hannibal did not reach for it, Will let it fall in his lap with a grumbled curse.

“ _Idiot_.”

Hannibal smoothed a hand over the coarse cardboard under layer. It was covered in grooved etchings of a pen on scraps of paper. Some he could make out. Phone numbers. Dates and times. Others were just a sensation of ridges.

“Turn it over and read it. Or I’m going to beat you with it.”

Yellow splayed over his right knee and rustled as he shifted. Pages flexed backwards one by one, falling in to place. He went slowly. Listening to the crinkle and the dull aching dread of his heart. He had been in love with this feeling of melancholy once, the sentiment growing stronger with each letter he sent to Will in prison going unanswered. The last page floated from his fingertips. Jarring points and scratches filled the blue marked margins. He squinted, dipping his head to see more clearly. It took him a full three minutes to realize it was written in fluent French. His thumb skimmed the first few words, translation creaking in his mind: _Et vous aussi devez mourir…_ Hannibal suddenly gripped the paper so hard it bent at an angle in the middle, agonized sigh forming.

_And you as well must die, beloved dust,_  
_And all your beauty stand you in no stead;_  
_This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,_  
_This body of flame and steel, before the gust_  
_Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,_  
_Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead_  
_Than the first leaf that fell, this wonder fled,_  
_Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost._  
_Nor shall my love avail you in your hour._  
_In spite of all my love, you will arise_  
_Upon that day and wander down the air_  
_Obscurely as the unattended flower,_  
_It mattering not how beautiful you were,_  
_Or how beloved above all else that dies._

_~Edna St. Vincent Millay_

He had seen the poem before. On one of the pages of a leathery spine in a cozy library. One of his father’s books. He had seen it once more penned on tea dyed parchment bound by tarred black fisherman’s twine. Will had written him a hundred poems for his birthday and delivered it safely in his arms beneath the hum of starlight near the Seine. He had tasted of drowning lilies and souls swept away by the river underneath their feet.

_Nor shall my love avail you in your hour._

No sooner had Hannibal finished the poem than it was ripped from his grasp and flung across the room. The older man nearly dropped to his knees and crawled after to retrieve it. To pull gently at the perforation and fold the paper to a perfect three inch square. Then tuck it in a place above his heart, fingertips caressing every crippling word. He turned on the stool and stared up at Will, mouth open without a single word able to escape.

“One of your favorites, isn’t it?” Will snapped, jamming arms into sleeves before zipping up the uniform with a harsh jerk on a zipper. “I heard the words in the timber of your voice when I was….when I thought it was the end. I knew that sound, no matter how far I drifted, would always bring me back.”

Brows wavered with contrition. Hannibal stretched out his hand, gaze falling on the crook of a thigh and a hip, to bury his face there and hide a well of tears. His hand was swatted away.

“But _you_ …” Will shook his head slowly, pain creasing the lines of his mouth, voice bottoming out to a harsh slur. “You thought I was confessing. Setting you up to take the fall?”

Curling forward, the older man clutched at the fraying hem of the uniform’s trousers and offered a pitiful noise trilling up his spine. The abyss within shook with a stir of his darker self, howling suspicion still. He wished he could cut it out of him.

Nails dug in to his jaw and Will jerked his face up, eyes flashing azure hurricanes of the Mediterranean. “Answer me.”

“I-I…”

Hannibal’s steadied voice broke and faltered three times. His lips contorted on every syllable, mouthing them silently over and over, until they finally formed.

“…considered the possibility of influence over a broken man greater than the one you believed disintegrated to beloved dust.”

Fury shook him and snapped the older man’s head back. “I am _not_ broken!”

“An ill man with a shattered mind and weakened body is easy to influence…” Hannibal pushed away and walked to the other side of the room, two halves of him locked in battle and mangling the words he meant to speak. “Did I not provide you with an intimate enough experience to know its truth?”

“I would never do that,” Will whispered fiercely, standing abruptly.

“Not consciously.”

The younger man marched over, feet spread wide, chest puffed out. “Not ever!”

Hannibal touched violence ticking in a vein on his forehead and offered a weak smile. “Never say never.”

“What do you mean ‘former?’” Will demanded, twisting the hand away and wrenching it behind a back.

“We do not always choose to condemn men to death…” He considered the twinge in his arm, hobbling most of his weight to a good leg and kept a level gaze with harsh blue. “Sometimes it is purely a matter of circumstance. And a glass of whiskey between friends.”

“You know…” Will let go as if Hannibal had burned him, tears flooding his eyes, tone cracking to a breath. “But I…I chose you.”

“It is not an accusation…” The older replied softly. “It would not, does not, change the depth of all I feel for you, William. Your very name, the love I possess for you, will be carved upon my bones until the end.”

“A vicious thing to say to given the circumstances, angel.” Tears slid down pale cheeks and disappeared in a forest of black.

Lips pressed firmly to a wedding band. “I love you, Will…”

“Crueler still.” Will looked up with shattered longing.

“I am…” Hannibal bent his face, peaked nose brushing a cold one, gaze narrowing to the tremor of a mouth “…a cruel man…”

Their lips met in a clash. They both were cut open and spilled out across their feet. Legs twined around a steady one. He lost his balance. Hannibal banged in to the wall first and then spun Will against it, beneath him. Fingers twined in short hair. A beard scratched against his cheeks as the younger man kissed him fiercely, demanding to claim the oxygen heating his lungs to warm him. To hold him. To make it all disappear if only for a few minutes. The salt of their tears mingled with the shift of their mouths.

“I want you, I want you, god, please tell me I’m enough to trust in.”

“If you can say…” A sweeping tongue delved in after. “I am enough to hold on to.”

“You are…” Will whispered feverishly between breaths. “You are. I love you.”

“William.” Hannibal crushed Will in his arms, sniffing against a wild mane and scrubbed at tears on his cheeks. Deep aching need shook through him. “Tell me you will not leave me.”

Boots echoed in a hallway near by.

“They are coming for us.”

“Please don’t make me go back.” Will fell forward, clutching at his shoulders, begging against the emblazoned code on his chest. “I don’t want to go back.” A fist twisted a sleeve tighter and tighter. “I don’t want to go back. Don’t make me. Don’t make—Hannibal, I can’t—“

Hannibal kissed him once, a gentle twine of lips before murmuring, “Quiet, dearest… breathe.”

“It’s dark.” Knuckles blanched white, shaking. “You know I hate the dark. You know what waits for me there.”

“Another breath, please, slow and steady. Very good.” The older man rocked the body gently, locking an arm around a waist. He could feel Will’s strength draining, face growing pale once more. “You will not be returning to solitary.”

The door banged open. Will jumped. Hannibal coiled tighter around him, sliding a hand around the back of a head, and peered over a shoulder with a glittering gaze.

“There is no one here except you and I…” He pressed lips to the curve of an ear, tension riddling his arms as black leather moved closer. “Listen to my voice. Can you feel yourself safe inside my arms, Will?”

There were four of them. It wouldn’t be long now.

“I need you to listen. Can you listen to me, Will? Events are going to progress very quickly, darling. And I need you to be strong.”

A fierce nod rustled against his uniform.

“Good, very good…” Hannibal praised him softly, leading them further away from guards closing in. “Uncle Jack has returned.”

“W-what—how?“

“There will be a trial. Of that I am certain. They will find a way to return to justice by the book.”

“Who’s they? What do—“

Hannibal clamped a hand over a mouth and spun Will against a corner of glass and plaster, blocking the view with a hunch of broad shoulders. He stroked hair out of wavering eyes and kissed a forehead.

“We will be read our rights and questioned. They will charge us with the murder of Francis Dolarhyde.”

Feeble protest warmed his palm.

“There is a possibility we may be charged with whatever else they believe they can prove. We will be processed. Do you understand what that means? Do you remember?”

Will nodded with a pained expression.

“They cannot compel us to testify against one another, Will. Not with the union of marriage tying their hands.” Hannibal rushed through as much as he was able. “I will hire us an attorney. Entertain them with whatever web of fiction you like until they arrive if you feel the need to speak. Be patient. Compose yourself if you are able. Nod your head if you will do as I say?”

The older man pushed a hand over a clattering heart and smiled gently as Will shook his head in agreement, nuzzling against the palm on his mouth.

“I am right here…” Hannibal murmured as a rifle jammed against his lower back. “With you.”

Bending to knees, his hands slid down trembling arms and squeezed hands. He would hold on for as long as he could. Will backed into the corner, gaze sweeping wildly over the array of firearms pointed their direction. His knees buckled from the strain.

“I need you to cooperate and go quietly...” Hannibal placed a palm against a knee, raising his voice to the melody of rainfall on roof of their home. “For my safety. For your own. For the safety of those around us.”

Will took one more breath and slumped to the floor, hands locking around his head. They bent forward until their foreheads and knees touched.

“Unless…” Hannibal tipped his face to peer up in darkening blue eyes, murmuring tenderly. “You would like me to create a fresco with their blood in your honor?”

Will glanced up and finally returned a smile. “How romantic.”


	10. Chapter 10

Their relationship wasn’t destructive. It was an atom bomb imploding over all their lives. It left nothing in its wake. Not even each other. Just imprints of shadows where they once occupyied the same space. And here they all were. Back together. Just waiting for the radiation to slowly kill them off.

The former doctor paced her office anxiously underneath the watchful gaze of Jack. She glanced occasionally at the monitor to make sure Will was still breathing. It was difficult to keep her emotions shielded behind painted red lips and kohl lined eyes. Her heart had stopped when the two men disappeared beneath the only blind spot available. She was sure Hannibal was getting his revenge, choking Will to death beneath the table. She could hear fevered cries of help. Alana snapped the ash left of Jack’s cigarette and finished it off without even a ‘thank you.’ When a shadow of the older man reappeared within view, she startled and fell back in to a leathery chair. But no Will. When the other did appear, he was shaking and bare from the waist up. A hand reached out… she held her breath. Then—

“Oh my god.” Alana clamped a hand over her mouth.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter had his mouth on Will Graham. She waited for the pull and rip of skin as lips vanished beneath teeth. Mason Verger’s hideous face illuminated grotesque angles in her mind. Her painted nails scoured white lines over leather before she reached for the phone on the desk to call in the guards. She waited for the scream or for Will to fight him off. The view changed and she dropped the phone. The dial tone hummed in the silence. Antique legs of a chair creaked uncomfortably behind her.

Will had both hands lightly wrapped around a neck as he was bent back against a table, eyes closed, and was firmly engaged against the mouth against his. She had only kissed him once. It lasted no more than a minute. She swallowed a tang of bile. But Hannibal wasn’t hurting Will. He was _kissing_ him. And Will wasn’t pushing away. He was holding on and kissing back, just as hard and fierce. Without leaning closer (and her experience with Hannibal), she was fairly certain there was tongue.

Jack rose stiffly from the chair and clicked off the monitor. “Enough of that…”

Alana would have registered the confusion and then dip of repulsion in his voice if she wasn’t so busy staring at her own horrified expression in the black screen. She might even have asked if he felt the same way when she kissed Margot. But she doubted it. Jack wasn’t put off by two men kissing. He was more likely disgusted that a known serial killer was sucking face with his proverbial son. 

“I…” A rough voice rattled. “I…can’t stay.”

“What do you mean you’re not staying?” Jack asked bemused.

She was moving. Walking out of the office and down the hall in a hurried click of heels. She stooped and tore them off. And then walked faster, nearly breaking into a run.

“Where are you going!” A bellow chased after her.

She touched her mouth. Her mind was racing. Will’s lips had been soft, thoughtful and confused and trembling. Just like he was. All nerves and quivering need to be held. He had looked down at her with those puppy eyes and asked her softly to stay the night. It had been an unsure, fearful whisper. Romantic overtures. That’s what Will called it. He had been so in love with her in a moody silence, drifting passed her for years, and only once made vague mention of it out loud. He had been this crumbling facade of beauty.

_Do you feel unstable?_

_Mmhm..._

What she saw wasn’t that. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t docile and gentle. It was… The image of Hannibal leather bound and tied flashed behind her mind. She let out another _oh god_ and kept moving. It was submission and dominance all in one. It was unwavering desire and control. Did Will….?

 _No._ She shook her head. _No. Absolutely not. Hannibal made him this way._

“It’s your hospital, Alana!” Jack caught her by the wrist and spun her around, still shouting. “They’ll be under your care. You can’t just leave!”

“That is IF they are convicted, Jack! “ Alana shouted back, jerking her hand free. “You wanted them back in the States. Well, here they are!”

“Technically, you brought them back, Alana. I came here because I thought you wanted it too!” Jack returned, lumbering after her as she took flight once more.

“I may have provided the means and funding necessary for you to gallivant throughout Europe, but don’t delude yourself. This was _your_ hunt, not mine!”

“They need to be processed by a court of law, not…” Leathery shoes banged after. “Not this!”

Icy wind hit her face. A helicopter loomed on concrete. Alana rushed forward, hands clenching then unclenching. She wanted to go home. Leave it all behind her. She didn’t want to think about Will. Or Hannibal. Either one of them ever, ever again.

“I am not willing to put my wife and children in danger because of what you want.”

“Alana—“ Jack made a frustrated growl, gesturing with curling fingers at the sky. “We need to see this through. Together! Don’t you want to be able to tell Margot she's safe?”

The doctor stopped in muddied tracks and stared down at her bare feet. Her chiffon blouse whipped in the wind created by turning blades. It was only fifty feet more. She could go. Like she had last time. She thought of Margot playing in their wild flower garden with the children, tucking pin straight hair behind her ears, and smiling brightly up with rosy lips. Her mouth pinched to a line. How many times had she kissed the cluster of freckles on her right shoulder and told her _I promise to make it all okay._

“I will see them through the trial…” Alana turned a cold stare on Jack. “And then I am gone. They are your responsibility! You hear me?”

Jack blinked, forehead creasing. “Thank you.”

* * *

“What comfort can I give to make you stop shaking?”

Will forced heavy eyes open and lifted his head from a cell floor, turning to face the voice. “A happy meal.”

“I…” Hannibal blinked from where he lay face down a foot away, brows scrunching. “…have absolutely no idea what that is.”

He laughed. “Course not.”

The younger man immediately regretted it. His entire chest still hurt from the landing when the guards had thrown them in. They hadn’t been separated. Will had only to show his teeth to get the guards to do what he wanted. It was a neat little magic trick. He should have learned it early on. Saved them some trouble.

“You aren’t going to explain, are you?” Hannibal looked pained, either from the expression on Will’s face, or his own renewed aches.

“Not a chance.” The younger man stitched on a crooked grin and scuffed a hand across the floor. “We’re passed explanations.”

“You accept me for who I am?”

“I always have.”

“What shall we do to pass the time?” The older man asked, holding his hand.

Will let his gaze fall over the bridge of a nose with a dead pan. “We could jerk each other off.”

Hannibal’s entire expression caved with a strained sigh of exasperation. Will tried hard not to laugh, but ended up doing it anyway. It hurt so much. But he couldn’t help it. His husband looked absolutely devastated by the prospect. As if his favorite set of gold tipped blades had been hung on nails within the kitchen just out of his reach. Or within reach, but caused too much agonizing pain to make it worth the effort.

Will rolled towards him, cursing the entire way under his breath. “Damn, damn, ow, damn. Fuck. Are _all_ my ribs bruised?“ He came to a halt against a stony wall of a chest. He glanced down to find baggy fabric of a uniform filled out, before returning an innocent smile as fingers tiptoed up a cast leg. “I’m far too tired anyway…and I have this doctor who would recommend rest over physical exercises for at least—”

He gasped as the older man rolled him on top and grabbed a handful of his ass. “Your blood sugar is dangerously low given your ordeal.”

Well. The younger man blinked. He hadn't expected that. He considered asking if Hannibal scented the diagnosis or if he could feel it through kneading hands. He draped across the length of the body below and considered the width and length of what he was being forcibly ground against with interest. He sucked lightly at raised skin on a throat, hoping it soothed rather than hurt. Though he knew the older man preferred a delicate combination of the two.

He shivered. Fuck, it was fucking cold. Will had gotten used to his thawed out state. They wouldn’t even be able undress or they would end up with hypothermic shock. Or worst. Frost bite in places he had grown fond of. The room spun with a rush of light headedness. Will groaned. If he would have known they would have ended up in an interrogation room or a cell together, he might have called off his hunger strike. He could have put the energy to good use. He wanted nothing more than to ride his old man until he limped, for reasons other than a broken leg. They would both be much warmer. He bit the inside of cheek. He could come from just this. Would have if he didn’t open his damn mouth.

“My reenactment of Ghandi you mean.”

_What in the fuck is wrong with me?!_

“Will, please…” A weary sigh rustled his curls as Hannibal went still, shifting to bring Will to a far less stimulating and more PG rated position. “I will see to it they provide you with proper nutrition. Though I advise an IV drip to return the vital nutrients you have lost and prevent further dehydration.”

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter…” Will ground his teeth, eyes rolling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He didn’t want Hannibal to blame himself anymore. He internally screamed. Then rolled off and stared at the water dripping in the ceiling. He hadn’t missed that either. What he did miss was toe curling orgasms. He would settle for one premature, semi-good one. He didn’t need candle light or precome slicked blow jobs. Or even those dexterous fingers up his—Will let out a low groan of frustration.

“Will…” A throat clicked with a hard swallow. “Are you…?”

Will looked down to find himself palming his hard cock through the uniform. He blushed bright. He both blessed and cursed the pitch dark of the cell. He knew Hannibal didn’t need to see. He would scent him. He squeezed up the length of his shaft. Wet trickled down his stomach and between shifting thighs. When the older man inhaled again, he had to stop himself from jerking off at once. He wanted to come.

Hot lips traced the curve of his ear. “Do you want…?”

A high pitched whine reached the air as a firm palm cupped his balls and lifted. His next impulse was to rut and come all over the older man's cast leg. He reached down and tightened the grip on his cock, guiding the hand in a few lazy strokes. Will arced his back and sighed. He felt good. They had been through so much. This was easy. Hannibal picked up the pace, tracing the tip of his tongue against a neck. But he wanted Hannibal inside of him, uniforms trapped around there thighs, sweaty and rough and quick. He wanted them close and—fingers twisted lightly.

“You have to stop,” Will moaned, pulling at the wrist dislodge the hand attached.

He yelped as the erratic jerk sent him over the edge. He came with a shout, gripping a flexing forearm as Hannibal worked him through it. Will collapsed spineless and somewhat humiliated back on frigid concrete. The shock of it alone sobered him up. Christ, did he just…? And here. Of all places.

A low voice swept over him as Hannibal pushed at hair clinging to a sweat soaked forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Cheap…” Will muttered. “Like I couldn’t get it up for you long enough to give you the real thing.”

“Does our change of scenery reinstate some archaic diagram outlining what constitutes as ‘real’ and ‘normal’ acts of comfort between lovers? Sexual or otherwise?” The clipped tone dug deep beneath his skin. “I thought we had discarded labels some time ago. Unless we are replacing them with some kind of psychoanalytic worth I am not aware of.”

“No, but—“ The younger man gestured in the direction of an unflagging cock as if it emphasized what little Hannibal had gotten out of it.

“Was this exchange cheap?” Irritation was replaced with genuine frustration and then anger. He could feel the older man bristling, eyes narrowing. “Or are you insinuating my part in it was less than desirable?”

“I just—“ Will let out a frustrated howl of his own and pounced Hannibal, sucking on his tongue until he was too distracted to start another fight. He pulled away slightly, squinting to make out dark pupils. “I just…”

He sighed. He had always had a hard time saying it. Making love. It sounded so ill witted and brash and…crude. Will sighed. Why did Hannibal want him again?

“I just wanted something softer…closer…” He murmured, stroking cheeks and a swollen mouth. “Between us. Shared. A…” _Connection._ Will felt a sheepish blush creep down his neck. “ _Folie_ à _deux_. I wanted to give you that. Beauty and comfort.”

“All of our experiences are shared, William…each precious within their own right.” He felt a fierce scowl soften against his cheek with a quiet whisper. “Have you not considered I might find my own respite in providing yours? When I have so little power over how you are treated and looked after here. That I might bring you even a moment of peace at all…”

“I’m sorry…” Will turned his head and brushed the words against a mouth. “I’m sorry, baby, you know I am an idiot. I didn’t mean to say it wasn’t. I just wanted to give you more. You deserve more. Can we cuddle to make up for it? Because I’m starting to get cold again.”

Will tucked himself in a corner and widened his knees to make room. He felt sticky and the damp of the cell was making him shiver. Hannibal leaned back against him with a satisfied grunt of content and forgiveness. The younger man wrapped both arms tight and burrowed his nose at the curve of a neck. His body began to shake from malnutrition and exhaustion. He wasn’t sure if he should tell the older man he would black out soon. A rough palm smoothed up the side of his face and slid through his curls. Will lapped gently at a fading scar he knew was on a wrist. They would match now. Or again. He kept the thought firmly within his mouth. A thought dawned and spread like morning sun over his face.

“Can I…” The younger man curved a palm up the arm framed against his cheek, point of a nose tracing from elbow to wrist, asking softly, “Can I have something else while we wait?”

“Anything you…”

Maroon eyes slid from sleepy corners, up cheeks, and locked on the divot of an upturned lip brushing up the throbbing blue of a basilic vein. Hannibal tensed, teeth glinting slightly as lips parted in a rush of breath.

Will kept his gaze, running an edge of his tongue from the scar down with a slow stroke. “Well?”

Hannibal let out a frail noise, pupils blowing wide. “Anything.”

“Reduced to one worded answers? I haven’t been able to do that in awhile…” Will tucked away a pleased smile and replaced it with a serious frown, voice dropping. “Is this okay? I need you to say it.”

“I made you a promise.”

“You can change your mind.”

“I want nothing more than to comfort you…” Hannibal responded fiercely, face tipping up for a kiss to fulfill softened promises. “Show me what you need, Will.”

* * *

A cacophony of murmurs and scuffing soles followed after as Jack wound further and further down a flight of stairs. They seemed to loop in an endless ring of corridors. The halogen lights gave him vertigo. Damp mold made him cough even through the crook of his arm covering his face. The farther they descended the colder it became. He had lived through more than one East Coast blizzard, but this was nothing in comparison. He could see his breath. It was frigid. A steel door was pushed open and they (he, Alana, six armed escorts, and one medical doctor) all exited in a stretch of dingy white filled with doors. They kept walking. 

He shrugged out of his coat and offered it to Alana without looking. She took it wordlessly. He adjusted the hat on his head. There was a chill in the air and it had nothing to do from the temperature. He wondered if she had ever been down here at all. He looked at her profile from the corner of his vision. Her face was still red from yelling. Her mouth white and thin. What she had seen upset her. Jack wasn’t ready to commit to any kind of sensation, judgment or otherwise. He didn’t know what the hell he had seen.

The procession stopped in front of the door. A guard with short cropped blonde hair looked at him, keys out. Jack nodded and reached for the hilt of his gun. He guided Alana behind him. She scowled. He didn’t know what to expect. Corpses. Maybe a fight. An all out blood bath seemed to be their style. He wasn’t about to take any chances. Not after the Dolarhyde crime scene. The cell door clanged open.

A displeased hum of irritation wafted out from the darkness. “Excuse me, does no one knock in this establishment as common courtesy might dictate?”

Six flashlights and one syringe lifted.

Jack’s steady grip slipped on his gun. “The fuck…”

Someone behind him made a distressed choking sound and vomited. One of the beams of light wavered. It was a guard.

The presumably dead doctor was alive and well. Lounging elegantly between legs with his head tipped back against a shoulder. His features were relaxed, eyes closed, sighing softly. Jack had the absurd feeling he was visiting him the BSHCI again and was disturbing his allotted time for ‘rest and reflection’ on the cot.

“Would one of you wish to rehearse the conversation you will be having with a judge explaining why my husband nearly died without proper medical care in your custody? Or shall I?” Hannibal ambled on pleasantly before creaking a single eye open. “Alana, you are absolutely glowing. How I was hoping to see you again.”

“Step away, Doctor Lecter…” Jack drew his gun and slipped the safety off. He raised it and aimed at the center mass of a chest. He wouldn’t miss this time. “Hands on your head. Both of you. On your knees.”

“A bit difficult at the moment.” An airy smile lifted. “I can only comply with one of those requests until Will returns the use of my hand. Surely you understand.”

Streams of glistening red coated an arm pressed to a mouth, fingers twitching slightly against an unruly mop of dark hair. A haze of blue glanced across the lot of them. Will drew a fresh trickle of blood as he chewed on skin. He heard Alana muffle a gasp and step back. He would have looked back to offer a comforting word, but didn’t. All it took was one distraction. He had this under control.

“Patched him right up, I see…” Jack noted, shuffling foot by foot in to the cell, shadowed outlines of rifles watching his back.

“What kind of husband would I be if I could not adequately provide comfort during a moment of distress?” The doctor stroked hands against flushed cheeks, murmuring against an ear, “May I have it back, darling, or shall I wait?”

Jack nearly turned around and threw up himself at the cloying endearment. It was offensive coming from Hannibal’s mouth.

“Distress? You mean _insanity_.”

The older man slumped as a flat edge of a tongue lapped up his forearm, revealing a series of shallower bite marks. Pink swirled delicately over a crescent of brighter red. Hannibal moved a hand over the wound and applied increasing pressure. He sighed as Will tugged his head to the side by short cropped hair and slid their mouths together, smearing red across their chins and down a throat.

Jack looked away, startling when a scuffle of feet had his gaze snapping back. Will crouched in front of Hannibal, shoulders drawn tight, bright blue peering out from dark falling over his face. A forearm dragged blood and teeth in to view. The agent took a step forward. The young man began to growl, an insidious thing seeping from the depths of his lung, feral and snapping.

“Say it again, Jack…” A hoarse timber of a blazing forest shook out. “Call me insane. See what happens.”

It was the first time he had heard Will's voice in years. He wasn't even sure it belonged to Will.

Jack took a quick step back and then another, shifting the barrel of his gun from the doctor to his former protégé. “Going to call off your killer?”

Jesus Christ. Was he going to have to shoot them both? Or would he end up like Chilton? Several feet of bowels short and burnt to a near crisp?

Hannibal sat a little straighter, amused and shrugged. “It is within Will’s right to govern himself how he sees fit. And generally I find I am all too happy to oblige.”

“This little display is going to get you shot, Will,” Jack warned, ushering the guards in after him. “If you don’t want to be called insane then try to act like someone who isn’t crazy for a change.”

Will lunged. A firm hand snaked around the back of his neck and held lightly to a rumpled collar. The older man came to stand directly behind him. Blue whipped up to glitter at a slant of cool desert sky.

Fingers flexed as Hannibal bent slightly at the waist, peering calmly into a storm. “Mind your Uncle Jack, dearest.”

“ _No_ …” Will growled, gaze slicing to the side to meet a flickering flame of red.

Jack stiffened, index finger slipping over the curve of a trigger. His palms began to sweat. He didn’t want it to end like this. He didn’t want to kill his friend. He didn’t want the sad eyes of the boy he had dragged kicking and screaming out of a classroom one day to haunt his every waking moment. Will had said it wasn’t good for him. How many times did he ignore it?

_Stability is good for you, Will._

_Stability requires strong foundations, Jack. My moorings are built on sand._

Hannibal tipped closer still and murmured something too low to hear with a trace of fingertips from cheek to lips. Will dropped to his knees with a heavy thud, locking fingers at the base of a bowed neck, corner of a lip twisting up before placing a kiss on an arcing cheek.

“I never said I wouldn’t mind you, Hannibal.”

A pleased hum answered, fingers threading through curls. “Good boy.”

His stomach twisted and lurched.

"Cuff them," Someone ordered. "Be quick about it."

"I object to the terminology used. Will isn't yours to cuff."

"They get it." A snort went mute. "You're possessive."

Jack watched blood flow from Hannibal’s open wound then pool in the palm of the hand he was holding. Then he caught the faint glimmer of wedding bands. And he realized…

Will had found his moorings, and built his own foundation, in the structure of bones and blood in another man. He hadn't died. He had been reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our last few chapters have been bloody (good?) : > In the last one, flowers referenced were all ones of the poisonous variety. And I like to think they have made up for some of their snapping in this one. At least, long enough to poke at Jack.
> 
> Though I am feeling a bit sea sick from their emotional roller coaster. I know you have feelings, lovable idiots, but my god. So what's that sound? Are we screaming for more? Or just screaming?
> 
> Forever yours, dear friends and readers.
> 
> On next week's episode, we'll be returning to our tried and true days of (legal) interrogation and police work. (Do I want them to escape? Yes. Is it feasible without them being shot in the head currently? Eh... We all know the answer to that.)


	11. Chapter 11

“Are you seeing this?” A voice called from another room.

Brian watched the glass tray spin round and round in the food spattered microwave in the break room with a mournful sigh. For a group of forensic techs who knew how not to leave evidence, he was certain this particular atrocity was encrusted in the half eaten DNA of everyone that worked in their building. If it had bothered him enough, he and by association, what could be categorized as ‘everyone else,’ probably would have cleaned it by now. It didn’t. He left it as it was. A true testament to their existence. He was within sixty seconds of blissfully unhealthy pizza bagels. If he took them out now, they would be soggy and burn the entire roof of his mouth with blisters. If he waited, they would be rubbery and inedible because god only knew how long Jimmy was about to prattle on about something he was seeing. Or thinking. Or needing to share whatever flit in and out of his skull. The man had no filter. It could be minutes. Hours. Days. And then where would his beloved afternoon snack be? It would end up in a petri dish to test for contaminants and newly discovered types of mold. Right next to the microwave he imagined.

“Z! Hurry up or you’re going to miss it!”

He sighed and pushed away from the counter, casting one last longing glance at the microwave. “Goodbye, my friends.”

Jimmy was anxiously perched forward on the edge of an aluminum stool, crowding close to a wood paneled television from some dated year in the 1960s. It was more than likely dug out of a dumpster and labeled a ‘gem of a find.’ He rolled his eyes. In another life, he was positive the man would be a hipster lurking in coffee shops and relabeling vintage as the new earth friendly chic.

“Am I seeing, what…?” Brian leaned over and squinted at a flashing red ticker tape.

He swore to god if Jimmy had pulled him away to watch another cat video or a squirrel on water skies again…

_SERIAL KILLERS CAPTURED: Brought to F.B.I. headquarters for questioning._

_Oh._ Brian blinked hard. He would have preferred the cats.

Cameras flashed over a sea of pushing bodies and thrust microphones. Dozens of uniforms emblazoned with various state and federal agencies appeared. Someone reached in to an armored van and pulled on chains. Steely blue lifted from behind a fogging mask directly into the nearest camera before being hauled forward by a straight jacket.

“Jesus…” Jimmy drew a hand over his mouth to muffle the disbelief in his voice. “It’s him.”

The forensic tech squatted next to the screen and ducked his head. He wasn’t hiding. Necessarily. He was resting his body…in a position that looked a lot like hiding. A shiver shook through him. Brian had never liked Will. Will had never liked him. But he had always known something wasn’t right about him. He was off. The shit that came out of his mouth should have been evidence enough of how ‘off’ he was. But no. No one listened. Was he really a cold blooded killer now? Or had he been one all along? A clamor of audio rose in the background, a blend of shouted questions and reporters talking over one another. But one rose louder and clearer than all the rest. He winced.

_Get a close up, Marty. Ladies and gentleman, this is Freddie Lounds—_

Both men simultaneously groaned. It was bad enough the world had to suffer her online articles. Someone had given her a video camera.

_\--reporting live. Events are unfolding quickly. We have just gotten our first glimpse of the presumed dead former F.B.I. agent, Will Graham, being led from a transportation vehicle. It is unknown where he was captured and how long he has been in custody. The local and national authorities are scrambling to contain a surging crowd. Oh wait. Wait. There’s someone else. It’s—_

Jimmy gasped, hands clasped to knees, breathing out. “Doctor Lecter.”

_You saw it here first. The return of the infamous and depraved Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter. Rumors have swirled since the disappearance of both Lecter and Graham after the discovery of their gruesome crime scene involving fellow serial killer, the Dragon. Francis Dolarhyde was most well known for…_

Brian sat firmly on the floor and stared at the screen. He shuddered. He had seen first hand, hundreds of crime scenes, what that man was capable of. What he had done to those bodies was the stuff of nightmares. His stomach lurched. He had been lucky enough to never consume any of the murder victims. But the Dolarhyde murder…was different. He still closed his eyes at night and saw an ocean of blood. Gouts and gouts dried black to the slate patio. Pools and spatter leading away from the mutilated body and disappearing over a steep edge. Below uncertainty and fear had churned grey green against rocks.

_Have our very own murder husbands been captured to face the reality of their crimes? How many did they kill to consummate their love?_

Armed escorts pushed the doctor through the crowd on a gurney. He offered an easy smile in the direction of Freddie Lounds with a gleam of a mask.

“They’re…” The tech’s expression blanked with his mind. “…not dead.”

“Well obviously,” Jimmy shot back, tapping a hand against the television to calm a quiver of static. “But we never found their bodies. It was always a possibility.”

The man rocked back on his heels as bewilderment wrinkled his brow. No good could come of this. They had all moved on with their lives. Or tried to. Jimmy had married a younger horticulturist fellow in the Fall. From what he had heard, Jack was in the longest engagement known to man to a pretty girl he met in Spain. And he personally had been seeing someone for the last year or so, and seeing as how she hadn’t used him for information or set him up to take the fall in a tabloid magazine, seemed promising. But he wasn’t crossing his fingers. It never seemed to last. Maybe he ought to write in and ask how two of the most notorious killers in the country managed to stay together even after several near deaths.

“Jack finally wrangled his ghosts,” Brian replied with a begrudging breath.

He wished they had stayed ghosts. It was better for everyone that way.

“From the looks of it, a little too effectively. Do you see that skin discoloration?” Disapproving lines appeared as the frown on Jimmy’s face deepened and gradually rose to ripple across the planes of his forehead with concern. “Pretty sure that’s petechiael bruising. I bet you anything there’s some nasty hematomas hidden under those uniforms.”

Where the fuck had they been all this time? The trail had gone cold in Italy. And then Jack had disappeared.

With a huff, he stood and crossed his arms. “Serves them right.”

“Do you think it’s true?” His colleague shot a stern look over his shoulder.

“What? That they deserve it? Damn right they do.”

“No, no. Not that. Lord knows you don’t have an objective opinion,” Jimmy rattled before pausing. He stared at the screen as blurring figures disappeared behind locking doors and then glanced back. “That the two of them are…? They’re…well, you know.”

Brian stared back at him with glazed eyes and considered what kind of funeral to give his pizza rolls. Jimmy pursed his lips, waiting impatiently for a reply, and then repeated what he said with a crude set of hand gestures.

“Oh Christ!” Whirling on his heel, Brian tried to scrub away the mental imagery and stormed out, shouting, “What are we in grade school, Price? This, or anything related to this, is not something I’m going to discuss with you ever!”

“But the people have a right to know!”

* * *

Frost clung to the window in a glum ghostly white. Molly plunged hands in soapy water and studied the dainty designs it created. The backyard was littered with limbs from drooping oak trees. A storm had blown through bringing with it a winter chill and freezing rain. She would have to clean them up soon. She glanced down at her slim pale fingers and touched a spot where a ring had once been. Water crept up seams of rolled sleeves, gauzy pale peach chiffon clinging to her elbows. Will had liked the winter months best. He said it quieted his mind. Sitting out on the porch till his cheeks turned rosy, staring off into the distance haunted by something she couldn’t see and he wouldn’t let her know. He had tasted of pine and hints of whiskey easing from icy lungs of despair. She shook the thought away.

“Mom!” A small voice called. “Mom, come look!”

Molly watched water drain frothy white as she pushed her feet in plush slippers before reaching for the light switch. She hesitated. Then left it on. She had been leaving them on for years. Inside and out. Inside for her own comfort. And kept the porch light burning for someone that never came home. She made her way to the shadowy den and found her son standing three inches from a television screen.

Walter whirled around and pointed at the glow of pixels. “It’s him! It’s Will.”

Molly grabbed an edge of the tattered beige couch for support and lifted her eyes. Her knees creaked. All the pieces of her heart surged and gathered whole. For one blissful moment she thought her prayers had been answered. Ocean blue looked directly into the camera and she sank to the floor, one hand on Walter’s shoulder and the other covering her mouth.

Then she saw him. Silver haired and red eyed. Disgust twitched her lips to a hateful angle. A rush of scorn had her biting her inner cheek. She let her hand fall and rake through the shag carpet on the floor. Tears in her eyes began to burn. The pieces inside her grew brittle and hardened, malformed and etched in years of brutal silence.

“No, honey…” Fringed strawberry blonde fell over a cold gaze. “It isn’t him. Our Will died a long time ago.”

* * *

Hannibal held wavering blue with a tender sweep of his eyes. It was all he was capable of giving through six inches of bulletproof glass. He and Will had been separated upon their arrival, placed in separate interrogation rooms. They could see one another. He suspected this was in hopes to rattle a confession from one of them. They would have to try harder if they expected them to turn on the other. He sincerely doubted torture would be condoned at a federal level. Especially after such a spectacle was made of their arrival. There was not a doubt in his mind a particular red head played a hand in wringing out classified information from yet another unsuspecting government official. Smoke often lead to flagrant fires. Freddie Lounds lurking nearby with blackened fingertips and discarded matches at her high heeled feet.

Rumpled wrappers of white stamped with golden arches waved his direction. Will chewed thoughtfully on its hideous contents. The consideration turned to desperate tearing of teeth a second later, glazed eyes darkening. Hannibal winced as the younger man hunched over the food to devour it in near whole bites.

_Slow down, darling...you will make yourself ill._

He knew starvation made it difficult to satiate the greed to replenish and strengthen. His first meal after escaping the orphanage had been snatched from a burnished orange fox. He had thrown a log in her direction and chased her off. The fawn’s flesh had still been warm. His stomach contents ended up by a stream a half hour later beside his unconscious body. Blue eyes lifted. Will froze mid bite and slowly set down the hamburger, flushing crimson with apologies.

A small, soothing smile flickered across his mouth. The older man’s jaw ached beneath the mask. He could still hear the crunch of a trachea between his teeth. He had not been fond of repeatedly drowning to be certain, but he was even less amiable to seeing Will crushed beneath boots after surrendering peacefully. He had put down the Goliath in the only means available to him. Hannibal smiled. His screams had been much more satisfying than anticipated. Surprisingly, Jack put a needle in him instead of a bullet. Perhaps the man had a sense of justice after all. The straight jacket, however, seemed redundant.

Tired retinas flashed with after images of cameras going off. Hannibal scrunched his nose, flexing aching shoulders. He was glad to be able to see Will. To know he was near in the hours they waited. Chains rattled against the table he was cuffed to, drawing fresh beads of red on his forearm. The mark would be permanent, much more beautiful than the slits the hospital orderly had left. It was Will's mark by proxy. But he preferred the intimacy of their latest encounter. He sighed. He was beginning to get a headache. When had he slept last? He had nodded off several times in the transport van, brain buzzing with visions of Will lying peacefully asleep on a white sand beach, jolting awake to find his husband muzzled and eyes downcast in the cage across from him. Each time was more jarring than the last. In the seconds before clarity returned, Hannibal hoped to wake to find he was alone. He never was.

Dark brows furrowed against a mop of hair and leather straps of a mask returned with a cautious tug from a guard. Will tipped his head with concern. A rush of guilt hazed blue eyes. Hannibal shook his head hard enough to loosen several dizzying waves. He wanted to tell the younger man he was not the cause of his discomfort. He had hardly lost enough blood to cause concern. Even if he had, he would have let Will bleed him dry, burrow deep in his bones and rest in the safety of his skin. He needed to regain his strength to keep the younger man from seeing his weakened state. He used to be much better at hiding it all.

_I used to hide from you in plain sight, William, until you chased away the shadows and shined the light of your eyes inside the caverns of my soul._

“I never thought you were dead, you know.”

Forcing his gaze from mirrored glass, Hannibal turned to find Jack looming over his shoulder. A stack of files was piled in his arms. Gold emblazoned his chest on a leathery badge. Ah. How unfortunate. They had returned Jack to his post after all. Congratulations were likely in order. A polite gesture. Hannibal considered the circumstances of the reinstatement, casting one glance in Will’s direction. Social etiquette could be waved just this once.

A mousy agent scampered in, strands of comet colored hair falling over thick glasses. She teetered this way and that to balance a cardboard file box before setting it on the table. Mossy grey eyes cast a furtive glance the older man’s direction before the agent vanished. She was fresh. A new pony for Jack to throw to the wolves. They were alone once more. Hannibal felt Will watching them with narrowed eyes. He could sense tension gathering in the younger man’s shoulders, the stiffening of his spine, cold sweat of palms. He had to concentrate. He blocked it out.

“Seeing as how you did not consider the possibility…” Hannibal countered coolly. “I was the killer you were looking for all those years, I might suggest your judgment is not the most reliable.”

“And it’s not like you to leave forensic and DNA evidence strewn all over Europe, Doctor. I’d even say careless,” Jack shot back with a smug grin, flipping the box over and dumping out contents. “There’s enough here to make something stick.”

Plastic evidence bags littered the table of various shapes and sizes. He knew this was not the only box Jack had acquired over the years. Not if he had been hunting them since their disappearance. Jack was always contentious and thorough when it came to catching killers. Hannibal cast a dispassionate gaze over them before tuning out the voice. Photographs landed next. He heard a rumbling freight train beneath the turning of his conscious mind. He used to be exquisitely careful. Each action calculated, weighed, and dispersed with effortless grace. He sensed the younger man shuddering beyond the room and clenched his jaw until the sensation weakened. His emotional attachment to Will made him reckless. He began to catalogue the evidence thick hands pushed in front of him.

His breath caught. Will’s first time. His very own design. Their first mistake. It was lovingly depicted in stark black and white. A man’s body riddled with a dozen jagged stab wounds. He saw the shine of stormy blue in the pitch dark alley in Marseilles, rigid bass of a nightclub slamming against his spine. The kill had been pure abandon, soaking Will red from the waist up, in a display of defiance and power. To prove he did not need to be saved. Hannibal had told him to stay put. To wait. To leave if he did not return. The boy had been foolish and endangered both their lives. He nearly killed him, struck down by hot hands sliding beneath his shirt and a copper filled mouth gasping for air against lust. He nipped at the fleshy bit of his lower lip. Will never tasted more vulnerable than when he fought to survive only to offer himself up to be devoured. He grimaced inwardly. How Jack had made the connection was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he had scoured international agencies for any murder he could find and chased after each one in hope of a lead.

A newspaper unfolded. The Times New Roman headline shrieked in French: _Massacre at Lisandru Estate._ Beneath that a gory photograph of two bodies embracing in a puddle of blood made him smile. Nicolas and the boy he called Cecil deserved each other far more in death than they ever did breathing. An evidence bag slid his way. A suit jacket of cashmere and delicate hand stitching. He recognized it immediately. He had taken it from the tailoring shop after strangling the father’s apprentice. He had discarded it on the side of a road in a snow bank with his broken heart, head bent and hands shaking as he screamed silently. It would be covered with his blood. Will’s. And the DNA of a dozen others he had slaughtered mercilessly inside marbled walls to deliver the boy safe from harm. They could connect them to the crime scene. But they would never be able to prove the murders belonged to Hannibal. He hadn’t freed any of them of their organs or limbs to consume after all. At least not those particular men.

Several other article clippings slid in front of him. _Mysterious Disappearances: Connections to La Brise de Mer._ He forced his features to remain still. His teeth practically chattered with the need to gloat. He had enjoyed this interlude of time immensely. His need to reclaim Will’s honor had gotten the best of him. It had also allowed calm to return. Afforded a sense of control that had been taken. He felt most affectionate and at peace when able to provide Will with three course meals of delicately arranged parts of the men who had taken him. Perhaps he had not been as quiet as he should have been. How could he let them live after what they had done?

Hannibal touched the corner of a photograph lightly before looking away. It was a mug shot of shivering skin and panicked violet eyes. They should have never involved the priest. Elias had nearly been held accountable for their destruction. Another headline read: _Bloodbath in Local Church. Socialite Discovered Among Bodies: Priest Held for Questioning._ His thoughts turned to the house by the sea. If Peter and Elias had been searching after their disappearance, he hoped the public display of their arrest would reach them and bring closure. What would they think? Would they be horrified? Disgusted? For Will’s sake, he hoped Elias would forgive them and find a way to live with the knowledge the closest thing he had to family were two killers. He frowned. Elias was also the only witness they ever had to their crimes. He longed for them to remain friends, not one of their victims, by their hands or association. 

Photographs followed. Some were of the property Hannibal had purchased for them. Afterglows painted the walls where men had died after taking Will hostage. Others displayed domesticity, closets of suits hanging next to ragged jeans and flannel. He wondered if the police had filed ones of body fluid and sex toys elsewhere to keep from seeing the light of day. Others were shots of the cabin they had spent quieter evenings in. Photographs of the inside of their boat appeared. It had been docked in the marina. They had sailed it to Italy. Hannibal let his eyes close. He wished they were still there, safe beneath the sheets and pressed skin to skin underneath starlight.

_You deserve sweet and easy peace, dearest one. You deserve a life apart from my own._

“The Chesapeake Ripper eluded an entire department of the FBI for years.” Booming interrupted his thoughts. “You got sloppy.”

“My attentions were elsewhere at the time,” Hannibal answered automatically, leaning back before looking up. “If we are to state things for accuracy’s sake, then I might amend your statement to say I eluded you for years, Jack.”

“And exactly what was more important? The Chesapeake Ripper never left a trace. Not a single shred of evidence. No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing.”

"Not until your agent in training." Red lips tilted with a smirk. “Primarily I was preoccupied with where my mouth and hands might be on or in Will, for example.”


	12. Chapter 12

A sweating palm gripped a bouncing knee. Thin breath fogged a mask. Will tried to steady breathing and quell the anxiety stinging through his veins. He watched Hannibal’s mouth forming words with smooth glides, desperate to channel the careless shift of his body. He knew the older man wasn’t calm. Not really. The slight crease against his brow had appeared and then vanished. Whatever he was looking at was unsettling. His knee picked up an erratic rhythm again. Deep circles swathed red eyes in black as they swept over photographs. He knew Hannibal was weary. They had offered Will a meal after the first two hours, but left the older man in entire isolation. His heart ached. How long would they try to wear them down? Neither of them were well enough physically to keep up an endless interrogation. If he asked, promised to behave himself, would they let him sit in a room with Hannibal? He sensed a presence and turned his head.

“Where’s Winston, Jack?” Will growled, propping folded hands on the table.

The agent set an unmarked filing box down quietly. Jack looked at him with a vacant expression. Will felt a tingling of atoms dispersing in his skin and knew the other man was looking right through him, as if this version was less real than the one Jack had once known. To be fair, Will was never sure that man had existed when he was around. Had not known him well or for very long. Just limbs and organs held together by mossy denim and flannel. A culmination of breath and matter and nothing more. Hannibal had made him feel real. Awake. Present.

Jack was dressed down. Sleeves rolled on a navy shirt. No tie or cuff links in sight. His thin silver glasses hung in a breast pocket. His relaxed appearance intended to be disarming, as if to suggest he and Will were merely having a friendly conversation side by side while they shivered on the ice and shared whiskey. They had talked of trapping Hannibal then. Now Jack had them both. And he was still holding open the cage and ushering Will in.

A throat cleared after a moment. “What?”

“Winston! My dog.” The younger man grit his teeth, knuckles draining bone white. “Where the fuck are my dogs, Jack, and what the fuck have you done with them!”

“The…?” The agent shook his head before sitting heavily across from Will, rubbing wide fingers against a creased brow. “Of course.”

Will leaned forward and Jack leaned back, studying the motion with a calculated glint. “Where.”

“Buried. Jimmy buried him in the garden in his back yard. Somewhere peaceful.”

“He’s mine.”

“He’s not yours anymore, Will. He’s gone.”

Inhaling sharply, Will felt his entire mouth flinch with anger simmering beneath his eyelids. He could handle the loss of his life. The repossession of his freedom. Even giving up his dignity. But they had taken Hannibal. Then they had killed one of his pack, his family, and let him say goodbye to neither. Not a single apology. Not an ounce of remorse.

“He doesn’t belong to you. Or Jimmy!” Will shouted, banging a fist on the table. “I want his body in the care of the priest. Buried at _our_ home, not some goddamn plot of petunias. Where he’ll be cherished and looked after.”

The priest.

Will curled toes inside of soft cloth shoes. He shouldn’t have said that.

Jack crooked an index finger over the thin press of his mouth and stared at Will, rolling words like marbles inside his cheeks. “Forgive me if I’m intruding but…” Elbows came to rest on the table. “Did you find God while in the drug induced haze of Hannibal Lecter’s company?”

It figured. It really did. Will hadn’t seen Jack in years. Had been in his company for the collective time of less than an hour. And he already wanted to walk out the fucking door and never come back. The man didn’t care about him. Didn’t care then or now. He would never be accused of not being objective. Jack had a one track mind. The return of his badge and gun were testament of that. Will was just part of the job again, to be dealt with and handled. Jack was doing what he did best. Fishing. Will was no longer the bait. He was the hook.

“Why do I bother opening my mouth, Jack?” Will sat back as far as restraints allowed, voice dipping bitter and half turned in the chair. “You never listened to a damn word I said before. If you just would have listened—”

Palms spread to offer peace. “Now…now look, Will, I don’t want to see you here.”

Jack wasn’t offering peace. He was offering up Will and Hannibal. And he was praying he could use Will again to catch him.

“Again.” Chains snapped and rattled. “You don’t want to see me here _again_. Where you put me. The first fucking time!”

“Why don’t you just tell me what really happened? Is it like the first time? Look at me, Will, I’m listening. So talk to me. I’m on your side. Your friend. Remember?”

A heavy palm settled over his clenched hands. Will closed his eyes and took a breath. The touch felt razor sharp and intimate. He never liked it when the man touched him. His body always jerked as if pulled by invisible strings. This was a manipulation, an act to rekindle a friendship they once had. Jack wanted to peer beneath the surface and he had no problem skinning Will to get a good look.

“You are only on my side when it is convenient for you to be…” Will replied with a grating growl. “Or do you not recollect being on the other end of the pole as you dangled me as bait for Hannibal?”

“Talk to me then.” Jack watched Will reel his hands back to safety before looking up, eyes shining like coals in a fireplace. “We can make this all go away, cut a deal, send you back home to Walter and Molly. Don’t you want that? To go home?”

Will followed the tip of his tongue with a scrape of teeth over lips to restrain a distasteful sneer. Jack was trying to appeal to his humanity. To the things he perceived as being a loss. Will hadn’t lost them. Loss implied he had misplaced them like a set of car keys. Or even guilt or longing. He had always known where they were. He merely shed the life he had known and left his nuclear family holding his papery skin. He would let that man die again and again. Not to bring suffering to the people he loved, but for once in his life, end his own. And allow himself some peace.

“You…” The younger man shook his head, laughing lightly. “…are making it very difficult for me not to vividly imagine your death.”

“Who is this version of you talking, Will? Or is it Hannibal? It sounds a lot like him. I hear your voice, but the words belong to him.”

“This is all me.”

“Don’t let this son of a bitch drag you down with him!” Jack growled, eyes narrowing before placing fists against a mouth and forcing his voice to quiet. He sounded hurt. “I know he’s your friend. Hell, he was my friend. I would even say my closest friend. My confidant. Or I thought he was. Until he tried to kill me.”

“He is not my _friend_ , Jack.”

“See, you’re making more sense already. Why don’t—“

“Give me his fucking phone.”

“What?”

“The phone. Hannibal’s phone. I know it’s bagged as evidence. Give me the goddamn thing.”

A spark of curiosity rippled in dark eyes. Will nearly snorted out loud. The agent thought he was getting somewhere. Getting through to his better nature, what was left of sensibility. Clinging to the idea Will was the same man Jack had taken under his care. Only to let the nightmares tear him apart. He let Hannibal put him back together. What did he expect? He would never fit together the same way ever again. He was changed.

_And he loved me for having done so._

After rummaging through the box, Jack pulled out a cell phone wrapped in plastic. It was the same one Hannibal had on him the day they had been taken outside of the market in Italy. He ripped open the official seal and pulled it out.

“Why do you—hey! You aren’t allowed to—“

Will looked down at the hands clamped on his wrist then dragged darkening eyes up to meet Jack’s gaze, voice growing cold. “My fingerprints are already all over it, Jack, it’s not contaminated. I suggest you let go. Unless you want to see what these can do.”

Teeth appeared. The hand retreated. For a fraction of a second Jack looked afraid.

_Good. Let him be afraid for once._

An icon bounced as he tapped on it. A gallery of photos appeared on the screen. He began to scroll through them. He tried not to look at any too closely. It hurt too much to see either he or Hannibal smiling in the bright saturated frames. It seemed so long ago. Another life time. Will thumbed over a photo and brought it up to fill the entire screen.

He took a deep breath and steadied the strain in his voice. “Now. Let’s try this again. 'Hannibal Lecter is not my friend.' Let’s hear you say it.”

“Will, you’re not—“

Will slammed the phone on table, cracking a rose gold edge, yelling, “I do not _fuck_ my friends! And I sure as hell don’t marry them.”

The photograph was grainy. The lighting was worse. Back lit with sepia dawn framed by gauzy curtains tied against a hotel window. Two silhouettes filled the rectangular frame. One was standing, hands on hips, head thrown back and sharp mouth open to moan. The other was kneeling on a hideous paisley down comforter on all fours, hands knotting fabric beneath curls, small of a back dipped low. Will had woken to a tongue inside him, throaty whisper pressed to his ear asking if Hannibal could have him. The older man had savored fucking him slow and sweet for an hour and a half, before they both collapsed in a quiver of thighs and seeking hands. They had slept curled around one another until night fall.

Jack tore his gaze from the photograph and put a palm over the surface, raw voice shaking free. He wouldn’t look at Will. He just stared at the table.

“Did he… hurt you? Force you to…to?”

Will bared his teeth without meaning to, stomach twisting bile. Jack moved his hand and must have swiped to another file. The younger man choked as it began to play. A shaky video recording showed the lazy whir of a fan overhead in the heat of summer to cool ocean soaked skin, voices drifting in and out.

_“Open your mouth for me. Are you able to take more?”_

_“Mmm.”_

_“William…” A gasp and then laughter. “So eager. Not so rough, darling. Ah, ah—“_

_A deep groan was followed by a wet pop._

_“God, Hannibal. Please. Please.”_

_“Please, Will? Won’t you say what you want?”_

_“In me. I need you in me, Hannibal.”_

_“Do you need me?”_

_“More. More. Yes, just like that. Baby, baby, fuck I’m going—”_

Blunt edges fell over the screen and the recording stopped. At least Hannibal had the good sense to keep the phone within reach. Thank Christ. Otherwise Jack would have just heard exactly what they both sounded like upon orgasm. Will wired shut his unhinged jaw and tried to block out the heat of his face. He could have picked up the sound of a straight pin dropping in that room it was so quiet. Photographs were one thing, but—

Sharp commands rose to shake silence from the room. “We can have a lawyer in here in an hour. Get divorce proceedings in or—“

“Shut. Up. Jack.”

“Look, Will, if he hurt you—“

“I _love_ him.”

“—we could submit that in to evidence. We have the photographs. We just need it written out, see?”

“He is the light of my fucking life and, once again, I _love_ him.”

“You were under the influence of a psychopath, Will. He got under your skin. In your head. So deep you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Will bent at the neck and raked shaking hands through matted curls, biting the inside of his cheek hard. It wasn’t difficult to figure out. His stomach sank slowly. He knew where this was going. One pornographic photo and a near sex tape later wouldn’t end this. He ground his teeth. Whatever they had, whatever ‘new’ evidence they had spread out in front of Hannibal, was all circumstantial. It would never hold up in court. Nothing they could prove with indisputable facts. What they could prove was sitting in an interrogation room with Jack.

“I knew _exactly_ what I was doing…” The younger man answered coldly, raising his voice to ensure the audio recording picked up every single word he said. “And the only thing he got deep in was me spread out on a dining room table with a three course meal. Unless you’re referring to the times he skull fucked me until I couldn’t see straight. Either is a good example.”

“No, no. Not just influence,” Jack blustered, barreling head long down a narrow corridor of his own self righteousness and unwillingness to accept. “Duress. He threatened your life. The lives of your family. Your wife. Your kid. What else were you supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Rigid shoulders shrugged. “I could have let him tear off my clothes and suck me while kneeling in a pool of Dolarhyde’s blood. I imagine he would have liked it. I imagine I would have too. But there was an issue of time, and well, imminent death or capture.”

“You could testify in court—“

“Jack, you’re not listening.”

“—that Hannibal coerced and _forced_ you in to a sexual relationship. That he—”

There it was. Hideous, vulgar, and disgusting. They would crucify Hannibal for what only one man, less than a man, a monster, had done to him.

Will slammed both fists on the table, screaming, “ _Jack_!”

The agent jumped, hand immediately going for the firearm strapped at his waist. Will’s chest heaved, lungs ravaged by flame. The quiet violence between them returned.

“…Thank you.”

His fingers curled one by one and then flexed open to release a trembling rage. He let the table blur and fade. He could feel Hannibal’s stare boring a hole against his cheek. He bit down on his tongue. He knew if he opened his mouth he would start screaming. And screaming. And screaming. It would never stop.

“Let me try this again in words you’re more likely to understand. Are you listening?” Will’s voice clawed free in a dark whisper, chains dragging across the table as he bent forward on elbows, fingers pressed tightly together against his mouth. “The only thing forced about my relationship with Hannibal Lecter is having to explain it to you.”

“I get it, Will. It happens all the time in kidnapping cases. A captive bonds with—“

Forcing hot breath out of nose, Will answered tersely, “Jack, there are few things I enjoy more than being tied up. But one of those includes bending Hannibal over the nearest surface with a knife at his throat and fucking him in the ass until he is screaming my name. Got it?”

“So he…” A rigid mouth opened and then shut. “He tied you up and forced himself on you?”

“Oh for the love of—“

*

“Jesus Christ, Graham!”

Hannibal lifted his head in time to see chained hands swiping out at Jack. The man’s startled shout was loud enough to reverberate the glass. Will had his teeth bared, shouting something back with enough force to turn his entire face red, then produced a rigid middle finger. A cellphone splintered above a ducking head. A set of bagged objects sailed through the air. The entire filing box followed shortly after.

The door swung open as Jack retreated, releasing a terse scream echoing through a hall. “I forgot what an goddamn cock you are! You piece of shit!”

When Jack circled back to Hannibal’s interrogation room his hands were shaking. He could tell by the way the fabric that formed trouser pockets rustled. Will was still standing, fists clenched, head thrown back in search of air towards the ceiling. Hannibal wanted to pull him against his mouth, drain the fight from his crimson skin, and tell him he was magnificent in fury. There were only one of two things that could get such an expressive reaction from Will.

“Did you ask him about his dogs?” Hannibal asked casually, crossing one leg over another. “Or about me?”

Jack nailed himself to the corner of a room and cracked bones in his thick neck with a twist, replying, “I don’t know what the hell kind of mind games you played on him, Doctor, but you sure have got him twisted.”

“He is lovely in a rage, isn’t he?” Hannibal sighed pensively, resting his chin in a palm, gaze flicking to the glass and smiling at Will. "Truly beautiful."

Blue eyes narrowed slightly and he knew the younger man’s gaze was fixed on his mouth, reading each word.

“If twisted is used to describe nearly aerobatic sexual positions then I must agree with you. He is exceptionally flexible. And thorough. Have I ever told you he has this amazing capability with his tongue that—”

Will began to shake with laughter, flopping back against a chair, shielding his eyes with a palm.

“For god—“

The interrogation room door creaked before it was slammed shut.

It was another half hour before Hannibal was allowed to make a phone call. Then the guards brought Will to Hannibal. He had threatened at least two of their lives and three of the lives of their family. He suspected Will probably had done the same. Jack wouldn’t let bodies pile up, at least not so soon after his reinstatement.

The older man brushed a kiss against the blank plastic of a mask, murmuring, “Our lawyer ought to be here within the hour.”

“That’s…good.” Blue slipped down and to the side, brow arching curiously. “Gonna give Jack a massive coronary? Or were you going for more of a cardiac arrest?”

“It seems to be what we are best at...” A soft reply echoed, hooking a thumb through the face mask and sliding it free. Hannibal let it dangle, pause dragging out. “Did he—“

The mask clattered to the floor. Will slid both hands around cheeks, chains snapping taut, and kissed Hannibal until he couldn’t breath. A tongue sliced open his lips. He chased after it, gripping bony wrists and pulling closer. They would end up in a tangle of chains. If they twisted much tighter, they would be able to lie against one another and rid themselves of oxygen.

“I…” A feverish mouth slipped free, brushing gently against swollen lips. “…don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

Hannibal felt Will shaking beneath layers of the uniform and nodded once. They leaned forward on their chairs, cuffed hands clasped between the box formed by legs and knees.

“Is it wrong of me to express how much you own me, Will?” The older man spoke softly, stroking knuckles with a soothing whirl of fingerprints. “And I, you?”

Will closed his eyes, chest rising and freezing, finally releasing lungs with a shaky breath. “Not if it’s true.”

“Would you like to hear another truth?”

The younger man nodded, wide blue drifting from his mouth to brightening maroon eyes.

“I would like to hoist you on this table as I am, bound and at your mercy, with my mouth on your cock.”

“Oh baby, take me now,” Will answered with punctuated lust, grin rippling across his face, brows quivering as his voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “You think Jack is still listening, don’t you?”

A playful wink caused another series of ripples. “One can only hope.”

They sat together for a while longer in silence. They slid fingers beneath palms and through slots of fingers, searching bruised bones and following imprints of textured skin. What fortune rested in their curving paths now? Hannibal pressed wedding bands between forefinger and thumb to watch flesh blanch white and then return to a dusky rose. He wished he could return Will's freedom the same way he might release his blood.

“Are we…” Will’s voice cracked on a low pitiful note. “Hannibal, are we going to be okay?”

“We are together now, Will…” Hannibal kissed him softly, then brought hands to lips, pushing hand cuffs down to kiss the bruises they left. “It is all I can promise to give you in this moment.”

Their gazes locked. All the unspoken fears passed between them in a shimmer of water and a flicker of fire. Will was on the verge of tears, cheeks stained, lips trembling. He sighed and forced his gaze to the floor. Hannibal loathed the bite of his chains as he reached out, dragging a thumb through a beard and held a trembling chin steady.

“You are exhausted, mylimasis…”

“What gave it away? The circles under my eyes. The blinking vacant sign strapped around my neck?” Knuckles ground against eye sockets to battle against tears, voice growing weaker and weaker. “I haven’t slept in days. Weeks. Months? What does it matter anymore? I don’t see it changing anytime soon. Might as well get used to it.”

Hannibal slid his thumb between fingers, brows drooping low on his forehead. He could break it, slip free of the cuffs. The pain would be far less than the agony etching tired creases in Will’s face and returning to gather shadows to eyes. The ones growing bright without hope and washing out under grey skies of crime scenes. Hannibal could hold him. Fight off the inevitable return of a haunting filling the home of his bones.

_I drowned that man in the sea. He is not the one I saved._

“Please, don’t…” Palms slid over his hands and squeezed. "I don't want you to."

Crimson wavered in a well of tears prepared to plea. Will shook his head again and pressed a kiss to a temple with another silent denial.

“Here…” The older man’s voice was jagged and fading as he hooked an ankle around the leg of a chair and pulled. “Rest with me.”

Hannibal heaved the weight of his body to the edge of the chair, balanced precariously and shifted his cast leg after. His arms began to tingle as the handcuffs began to cut off circulation, arms stretched long and rigid. He pulled Will against his shoulder until he fell against chest. He wouldn’t be able to feel the pain for much longer. Even if he did, he could block it out. He would do anything for Will.

“This—“ Will shook his head hard, mouth drawing to a thin line. “–can’t possibly be comfortable. It’s hurting you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

A commanding growl hissed between teeth. “My comfort is not your concern.”

“Oh, really?” A single eye creaked open before snapping shut. “If I don’t, you’ll just keep talking, won’t you?”

“It is entirely probable.”

The threat of conversation, of strained muscles and aching arms, was evidently more agreeable than the one of broken bones. Will slumped closer, nuzzling against a soft spot where his shoulder sloped into a broad chest. Bound hands twitched where their left and right knees pressed together. They needed to rest. There was no telling how long they might be kept for questioning. Hannibal wanted to sleep. His heavy eyes drooped further and further, brain humming for quiet. He had an entire sentencing to sleep. An endless eternity after. He might only have a few moments longer to be with Will.

_I would ask you to sleep, my love, to wake you with a chaste kiss when this nightmare has reached its conclusion._

“I wish I could hold you…” The younger man murmured, hiding his face against folds of rough fabric.

“Shh…” Hannibal squeezed eyes shut and pushed with the sharp angle of his chin to dislodge Will from clinging too tightly to his heart.

Will slipped further, head resting in the bend of a thigh and waist, twisting to look up. “Need anything while I’m down here?”

“A great many things. But I will settle with letting Jack or any other audience member use his or her imagination.” The older man felt a pained smile gather and wished he could run hands through curls below, to soothe Will to sleep. “For now, rest.”

“Wake me up if your limbs start turning blue from lack of circulation.” A wide toothed yawn stretched. “Or any other part of you for that matter.”

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of light breath and the stony weight of Will’s safety pressing down on him. “Yes, dearest one…”

“Hannibal?”

“Mm.”

“Was it good? Before? When I…” Lips pushed against his hip bone, quivering with uncertainty.

Hannibal felt the scouring of gentle teeth, the pressure, then a flashing jolt. An exquisite bite of pleasure and pain. Will had devoured him with soft pleas and whines, mouth dripping red. He had brought the older man to release within a few minutes, without a single hand on him.

“Divine…” Rough notes breathed out. “Though I suspect you have more of an obsession with coordination than I do. Are you intent on our wounds matching like the mirror images of our minds?”

“Some people buy matching sweaters and a bicycle built for two.”

“These were neither of those things.”

“What can I say? I’m old fashioned. Hard wired for primal urges to mark my territory.”

“Go to sleep before I suffocate you.”

“Hmm…” He felt the curve of a smile fade. “Angel?”

“Yes, Will?”

“Why _exactly_ was there a rather vocal recording of us having sex on your phone?”

“You…must be in dire need of rest if auditory hallucinations have returned.”

“Mm. Yeah, must be it.” There was an inevitable pause. “You should tell Jack to get that checked out some time at a hospital.”

Red bleary eyes flew open. "Pardon?"


	13. Chapter 13

Jordan Silas was a nervous man, slender fingers drumming against the crook of an arm. He had been for as long as he could remember. Perhaps since youth filled with schoolyard bullies and taunts from girls he thought had been pretty. His fingers often ticked against a thumb on his right hand when faced with social interaction, tapping out rhythmic anxiety. He had buried himself in a pile of books in a dusty corner of the library. Fending off loneliness with interplanetary deep space adventures and astronomy books thicker than the plastic lenses taped to his face. While other children passed triangle shaped love notes, he poured over texts on astrophysics and scribbled lengthy equations. It was the only time he had felt calm.

Space was his passion. It was not his father’s. The law was their holy scripture. A true man’s work. In the seventh grade, his father sat him down and told him he would become a lawyer like his two older brothers, Gerald and Benjamin. It was a family owned company after all. And didn’t he want to be a part of the family? Not some outsider obsessed with stars?

One evening, his father stood a dark cast shadow on the Persian rug as Silas pitched all his precious books into a fireplace, biting a quivering bottom lip. He had held on to his third edition textbook by Stephen Hawking for last, clutched to his chest as if it might impart some final knowledge. His father took it and he watched its pages catch fire. It was the first and last book he would ever burn. It was the same day he developed a stutter and was rushed to the hospital with third degree burns on his right hand.

_Tell me, little one, what is your name?_

_S-s-silas._

_Would you mind if I inspected your hand, Silas? I would like to help you. If you see it fit for me to do so._

Silas tugged nimbly at sandstone lambskin gloves. Hand stitched fingertips were always a half an inch too long on the right. Not that he could feel them even if they were snug. Nerves had never healed the same. The skin had grown back unevenly like melted candle wax, reddened and ugly, to others, not to Silas. He had grown to appreciate its uneven caverns and tunnels in time.

_It’s ugly. I’ll b-be ugly forever._

_You are not ugly, Silas, merely changed. Fire is transformative as often portrayed in mythology by such key figures as Prometheus, the god of fire, or Loki, the cunning trickster capable of endlessly changing his form. Do you think they would consider your markings ugly? Or would they consider you distinguished by the seal of greatness only fire could offer mortal man?_

His family had plenty of money for plastic surgery of course, but he liked the slow guilt ridden return of his books more. He chose to wear gloves instead. They were either a comfort or a weapon of his choosing. Coordinated by color and texture of animal. Only when he was alone did he take them off. One other person had seen them after the accident and a dozen times more during the recovery.

Hazel eyes darted towards the top of a silvery head, peak of a sharp chin resting on top of wild black curls fast asleep. The man sitting in the interrogation room had been a doctor in the ER then. His skin had been smoother, eyes brighter, with the hint of light in his crooked smile. He had been impeccably dressed, white lab coat stark against a snug silk tie, five button waistcoat, and slim trousers. The doctor never chided him when he cried. Simply bent on one knee to be at eye level and spoke in the timber of leaves crunching underneath light hooves. If he was particularly good, the man would often present him with a new book. There was a small caveat. He was required to share all he learned on his next visit to the hospital either for treatment or a light lunch.

_It hurts. It hurts! I want it to s-s-stop._

_It will only hurt for a while longer, Silas. I am quite impressed the bravery you have shown during your therapy._

_I’m not brave. Father says I’m a fool._

_And do you think you are a fool? No? I did not think so. There is strength in your bones and fire in your heart. Let them see how brilliantly you burn against the night sky. I know I will find you there._

When he was older, Silas had gone to thank the doctor who had channeled his nervous energy and tragic experience into an insurmountable force to be reckoned with. He had left the hospital. No forwarding address. He simply was gone. He carried that voice with him as he plundered through his studies, gaining a degree in astrophysics from Princeton and a year later a law degree from Yale. What his wit could not afford, his family’s charitable donations saw to. He had both by his twenty second birthday. A practice of his own by twenty four. Semi-retired fourteen months later to return to his love of books and quiet, generously giving his two brother’s oversight of its business practices and finances.

Here he was. A boy no longer. What seemed like a lifetime later with a man twenty years his senior in an interrogation room after a call from his proverbial conscience and sense of guidance. He had stared at the rotary phone’s receiver as if hearing a ghost through the crackling. Silas pushed a wiry pair of silver glasses up his nose, adjusting his posture against a corner of a room between the door and mirrored glass. He had been here for four and a quarter hours and still didn’t dare breathe. His brain had spent a good thirty seconds trying to catch up with his mouth immediately barking out orders upon his arrival.

_Get those handcuffs off them! Serve them a meal of substance! Sans Souci. Give them my name. They will deliver. It was not a request, gentleman. I will take a coffee. Black. And not that swill you have in the break room. Now!_

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to take charge with that devilish sliver of a smile washing over him. He remained unfazed by the criminal charges. He had read the paper, seen the news, with his dear doctor’s face splashed upon print and television screens years earlier. It mattered very little to him. The man had brought him hope, showed him strength, when he had none. There was no wrong he could do in his eyes.

They had spoken softly over their meal, wavering from the years past to the situation before them. The young man draped in the doctor’s arms had not stirred once except to ask for a glass of water and fallen asleep again. By the way Doctor Lecter held him, one palm cupped under the back of his head, the other under limp knees, Silas knew his hands were as kind and gentle as he remembered them to be.

The older man had closed his eyes—‘ _a moment, just a moment then we will continue our discussion.’_ He had not woken since, tucked around the slumbering form, at peace under Silas’ watchful eye and vigilant determination to keep disturbances at bay. He noted visible markings on their bodies. Bruised fists. Swollen eyes. Sunken skin and bone. It set his teeth on edge to see his false idol battered and wounded by mortals. He would take his own photos. It would not stand. They would not chain his god to a rock and watch on as crows pecked the strength from his bones. His gaze moved across the doctor and his husband once more. They seemed to fit effortlessly in and against one another. Fluidly draped like water. Fused together by flame.

_Do you hold your transformation with as much tenderness as we once held mine?_

A rap of knuckles on the door. Silas freed himself from the wall and lay a single hand against a slumped shoulder. Doctor Lecter stirred with a husky sound, heavy eyes easing open and sliding up. He held his breath. Had they always been filled with mythic flame?

“It’s time,” The lawyer intoned quietly, motioning.

“Of course…” Hannibal replied, blinking sleep away as he jostled the body he was holding between his knees. A peaked nose drifted against a seam of a shoulder before lips pressed to an ear. “Will?”

“Nnn…go…a…way.”

“Will, darling, I must disturb your slumber.”

Balled hands pawed weakly at a chest. “Tired.”

“Shall I have Silas fetch you a coffee?”

Silas straightened, tugging curtly on a jacquard waistcoat, lifting his chin and squared his shoulders in preparation to be of assistance. He glared across the bridge of a nose as another knock sounded. They may have worked here, but there was no need to be impolite.

“What…” Watery blue creaked open. “…fairy tales have you been reading?”

The doctor lit up with a soft smile and Silas felt his chest tighten with admiration.

“The ones penned by the Grimm brothers mostly.”

Will snorted. “It all makes sense now.”

“Would you prefer a kiss?”

Rough hands scrubbing against brows slowed to a stop, eye peering between fingers, voice rough. “…Yes.”

Hannibal tipped a chin up with a crook of fingers and brushed his mouth against Will’s. The other man sighed when they parted before moving his own chair, mournful gaze stuck to their reflections in the table. A hand slid around his waist.

“I…” The doctor let his chin hook over a shoulder, breathing against curls. “It would please me if you stayed.”

Will turned his face, light rose on cheeks. “I don’t think…” His gaze flicked up and away from Silas. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Given the physical state of yourself and Doctor Lecter…” Silas edged in a suggestion, tugging coppery strands from his eyes. “I might suggest you have more authority on your choices and circumstances now that I am with you.” 

Will melted in arms after that, allowing the embrace to tighten and Hannibal to press a kiss to a cheek. He jumped a moment later as a broad shouldered black man stomped into the room with eyes of coal, mouth snapping open to make demands of his own. Fingers rolled against his thigh, but Silas surprisingly remained stationary and nonplussed by the intrusion.

“My clients have nothing further to say,” Silas cut him off, pulling a black on black business card from a breast pocket and thrust it the man’s direction between two poised fingers.

Confusion crossed a face before looking back up. “I would advise your client...”

“Sorry, for clarification, which one of us, Jack?” Will piped up, nestled even deeper in arms, eyes once again closed. "You are representing us both, are you not?"

"Quite."

The lawyer found himself smiling. They would both be asleep in a matter of seconds. How charming.

“I advise your client, _Will_ , to reconsider my offer,” A booming voice tried again, flashing credentials of his own their direction.

Silas looked them over with vague disinterest and resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead pulled out a Blackberry, flicking through some obscure emails. They were mostly advertisements, spam, or the occasional client trying to pry him out of solitude with stacks of money. Nothing of interest. The agent would have to find a different octave if he was trying to either impress or intimidate. Or a different strategy to maintain his attention. The doctor seemed to be in firm control of the situation. He would interject when necessary.

Hannibal nosed against a collar, pushing fingers through dark hair. “Did he make you an offer, darling?”

“Don’t worry, Hannibal…” The other man was a quivering puddle, purring. “It wasn’t sexual in nature.”

“A pity,” The doctor answered slowly, before looking directly up at the FBI agent. “Jack, would you ever consider bottoming? As an empath William has a remarkable skill set in the verse of another’s pleasure.”

Jack’s mouth fell open with a noise intended to be a reply, eyes wide, aghast. The lawyer tipped his own behind a glove pretending to stifle a yawn, lips twitching a suppressed chuckle. If Hannibal found the man of interest enough to rattle his cage then Silas took no issue letting him have his fun. He always had appreciated a good verbal sparring.

“I’d like to pleasure you for a couple of hours.” A hand pushed up a knee, resting just on the inside of a thigh.

Breath caught slightly. “Would you?”

“Mm. Well, the tense on that matter is undecided,” Will drawled quietly, face turned slightly to sweep a gaze from mouth to darkening eyes. “You did just offer my sexual services to my old boss after all. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Offended I think.”

“It was intended to be complimentary. Though we could talk about your feelings on the matter.” The doctor arched a fine brow curiously, glancing at a phantom wristwatch. “My schedule seems to be quite open at the moment. How would this afternoon suit you? Two o’clock, let’s say.”

“Just fine…” An adam’s apple bobbed on a long swallow as fingertips pressed against it. “Might want to call off your next appointment. Ours could get pretty lengthy. Deep even. I’ll need our session to be thorough.”

Silas openly smirked behind the curve on his hand now, gaze flicking from the two prisoners to the agent who was sputtering for some rehearsed script of procedure balled up inside fists.

“Requirements I believe I could fulfill to your satisfaction.” A tongue slicked the corner of ruddy lips. “What shall we discuss?”

“You won’t be doing much talking.”

“Are you intent on finding other uses for my mouth then?”

“Oh...” Pink tulips curved a fraction above a glisten of crimson lifting, breathless. “Very intent, Doctor.”

A near shout ripped from a throat. “Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, you are being char—“

Delicate lambskin raised two fingers for silence. “I beg your p-pardon, sir.” Silas glided forward and rested a hand on the back of the metal chair, nodding towards the men below. “Perhaps this was overlooked in the official files or you misspoke. Will Lecter. Hannibal Lecter. Shall I have my secretary deliver the file t-to you, Mister Crawford?”

Eyes narrowed. “ _Agent_ Crawford.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

Will wriggled a set of nesting rings his direction. “Married, remember? Pesky little legally binding agreement?”

“The only favor God has ever shown upon me.” Hannibal pressed a throaty murmur to a neck. “I hope to become worthy of the honor in time.”

The two wound against one another again, cheek to cheek, hands clasping between their chests. Will whispered something gentle against an ear, drawing out a pensive sigh. Silas nearly sighed with them. They looked desperately in love. Jack was less than star struck. A vein was ticking furiously away on his temple. His skull might actually explode if this continued. The lawyer cast a considering gaze across his rust colored suit. He supposed brain matter wouldn’t be terribly difficult to dry clean.

“As I am sure you are well aware, sir…” The lawyer informed with a sweep of his hand. “…Miranda Rights are not valid unless using a suspect’s given name.”

“That is not his name!” Jack bellowed, throwing both hands in the air. “His name is Will Grah—“

“Now I’m sorry we didn’t invite you to the wedding, Jack, but that’s no reason to overlook official procedure,” Will interjected with frown.

“Did I not tell you we ought to have sent him an invitation? Did I not say so?” Hannibal scolded with a gentle tap on a curved nose. “We do apologize if we slighted your feelings, Jack.”

The agent took a deep breath and held it. Strong fingers pinched the bridge of a nose. Others flattened against the table to steady a tilt of sheer muscle.

“I think he might make good on shooting one of us in the face, Will.”

“I’d probably be first.”

“Do you imagine so?”

“Proximity alone makes me the best target. Don’t you think?”

“No, my love. I would never allow it. I have far too much admiration for your face to have it marked by another wound.”

“Unless their yours.”

Longing dropped a few rough notes. “Unless their mine. Yes.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Silas watched fingers slide up the curve of pale cheeks and slip through dark curls before Hannibal lured a tongue into his mouth and kissed Will until he moaned softly.

“Christ Almighty, I preferred it when the two of you were friends on the verge of slitting the others throat!” Jack shouted, before motioning in two armed agents. “Cuff them! This the F B fucking I, not some damn hotel suite.”

“Just one sec—“ A rigid forearm banged Silas against the wall, pushing him out of the way.

Growls turned to snarls accompanied by swearing growing louder as chains clamored and snapped into place.

“For the last time, Jack—“ Flashing blue eyes swung up, yanking furiously on the returned restraints. “—marry, fuck, kill is a parlor game. And I only play with Hannibal.”

From the opposite side of the table where he was cuffed, the doctor pressed firm fingertips against white blanched knuckles and leveled the tone of his voice. “Didn’t you used to fantasize about slitting my throat?”

Will held Hannibal’s gaze for a full two minutes before his heaving chest began to slow, breath evening out, fists slowly uncurling. Silas was reminded of stretching out his hand to a quivering fawn in the forest as a child and touching silky wheat colored fur. Her eyes filled with as much fear as he. They regarded each other from their own worlds for a moment. Then she bounded off to a stream.

“Who…” A mouth flinched, attempting desperately to maintain an air of defiance. “…says I stopped?”

Crimson swept a loving caress over a stony face, voice soft. “Food for thought.”

“We’ll see about the legitimacy of this alleged marriage in court.”

Silas shot the agent a scornful glance for the interruption. “Will we?”

If there was one thing he learned from his year with the doctor it was to mind his manners.

A bored voice replied. “So he says.”

“Interesting.”

_The best of luck trying to prove it in court._

“Futile at best.” The doctor chimed in, leaning forward and lowering his voice with the glimmer of a smile. “Could you elaborate on this fantasy for me?”

Stormy blue lifted from the table and Will offered a dark grin.

“This can’t be happening.” Jack scoured a blunt heel of his palm across his forehead to ease an intensifying migraine, gesturing emphatically at the two prisoners. “You tried to _kill_ each other! Repeatedly.”

“And we tried several more times over the years since.” A labored sigh echoed. “What precisely is the point you are so inadequately trying to make, Jack?”

“Christ! I’ve had about enough out of you!”

Branches of a gnarled forest fell across the agent’s face, snarl pummeling craters against deep cheeks.

“Hannibal Lecter and Will goddamn Lecter, you are being charged with the premeditated murder of Francis Dolarhyde.” Jack’s voice began to shake apart with anger, falling deeper and deeper. “And _you_ , Hannibal Lecter…”

Consciousness returned to a stream of cerulean, lifting inch by inch.

“… are being charged with kidnapping, criminal coercion, attempted murder, and the vicious and repeated sexual assault of former F.B.I. agent, Will Graham.”

Silas heard the snap of bone before he saw the flurry of movement. He gracefully side stepped with the faint sense of air rushing against his neck.

“I will fucking kill you, Jack!” Someone screamed. “So help me god! I will—“

Falling against the wall, hazel eyes hurtled back towards the sound, widening to find Jack pinned to the interrogation and a fist a second away from pummeling an eye socket. An unhinged jaw followed suit.

*

“They could have killed you…” Uttered a horrified gasp. "You should have been more careful."

Jack tried to form a teeth baring scowl to something more pleasant when he looked up at Alana. He couldn’t. He jammed a pack of ice deeper against the left side of his face. The two agents he had brought with him had been useless. Will had gotten in more than a few hideous bare knuckled punches. His eye was almost entirely swollen shut. Cheeks bloodied and bruised. He had popped two vicodin and was waiting for a trainee (one who was already fifteen minutes and eight seconds too goddamn late for his liking) to drive him home. The other side of his face looked like a Siberian tiger had taken a swipe across it. Jagged marks stretched from below his eye socket to the right angle of his jaw. Now he and Chilton could swap stories about Hannibal the fucking Cannibal Lecter over tea. Just fantastic. His fiancée, Esmie, was going to be absolutely thrilled. He had spent years keeping her safe from this and now he was bringing it home. Again. His teeth ached from clenching. It was either that or scream.

They had moved as one. Side by side. Exquisitely in sync. As Jack fought them off, he had seen in crystal clear detail his own death, overshadowed by their faces on either side of him at a dinner table. Had Will chosen him all those years ago? Or had it been a goddamn twist of Fate? Or lack of resolve? They would have killed him. Jack was certain of that. If Will had left with Hannibal, he would have already been someone’s feast.

A timid hand touched his. “Jack?”

He wished to God he had left the two of them with Alana. Let them starve. Let them suffer. He didn’t know who the fuck Will Graham was anymore. It wasn’t him. Maybe it never was. Maybe he only saw what he wanted to see. Yeah, he had used him. For the good of the many. He just tried to kill him. No pretense. No suggestion. Now it was personal.

“Alana…” Hardened stones rose to meet a wide eyed gaze. “I want them gone. You hear me? We make this stick or we find a way to watch them burn.”

Doctor Bloom nodded once, thin lipped and grim.


	14. Chapter 14

_Premeditated, my ass._

Fists shook against rigid thighs as Will stood, hands cuffed against his belly, in a cordoned off room in the lowest levels. The head quarter laboratories were located here. Several rooms down the morgue waited with its pristine frigid steel for a body they never delivered. A shame really.

_If at first you don’t succeed…_

The man would be part of their dinner plans yet. He swallowed a hoarse growl. He hadn’t meant to attack Jack Crawford. It just fucking happened. By the time he realized he was punching the shit out of him (with a broken thumb no less) it was too late. Something inside him simply wound and snapped. What choice did he have but to commit? Especially when he looked up to find Hannibal lunging forward to join in. He had seen his eyes. Ravaging red wild fire vowing to protect him, to slay their enemies, for what they shared, and it was too much. It was as enthralling as the throes of passion. Will let go and let himself fall. They hadn’t planned it. It just was. Beautiful for the time it lasted.

That’s not what they would claim of course. For Jack. Or for Dolarhyde. Harm with the intent to kill a federal agent. Some other ridiculous charge just for a sense of finesse he was sure.

_Bull shit. This whole goddamn situation is bullshit._

He had enough. Will wanted to go home. Return to their assumed watery graves. Where they were safe. Together. Where they had been happy. Not causing anyone any harm. At least not anyone that didn’t deserve it. But goddamn Uncle Jack just couldn’t let them die.

_Should have left us alone, Jack. Now it’s your life for the one you’ve taken from me. The first time was a consolation prize. Not this time._

A camera went off. This was humiliating. More so than the first time he had been processed under false claims. He found a smudged palm print on glass and focused on it instead. His chest stung from charred marks of a taser. He could still smell burning flesh. His and Hannibal’s. What had he just done? All he had seen was blood and Hannibal looking at him beyond the silken red.

The younger man shuddered. Not his first mistake. Where Hannibal was concerned he had no off switch. No way of predicting himself. No gauge or compass to direct which self within would tear free. How many times had he nearly died protecting the man when the furious, rational part of him told him to let go? Let Mason and the pigs have him. Let him bleed out on the streets of Italy before the gunshot. Allow him be pinned beneath glass on display as curiosity and inmate. Give him to the Dragon. Push him off that cliff. Drown alongside him in the frigid depths of the Atlantic.

It was no use. To fight it was madness. He was living proof of that. Hannibal was his. His to shelter from the ugliness of others perception. His to threaten with the visions of clarity and truth. His to hold underneath the waves or release with lips upon his mouth. His. His. His. Fuck anyone that tried to take that from him. Especially Jack.

He was turned to the side then another flash. He sighed. And so he had attacked Uncle Jack for threatening what was only his to threaten. They could prove this. If there wasn’t a video recording (there was, there always was. They taped everything…) then they needed only reference Jack’s face as exhibit five hundred and forty six alongside whatever other shit they planned on feeding a jury in this sideshow of their new lives.

 _Why couldn’t you have just sat there and fled the room in your mind like before?_ Something torn and battered hissed at him from the depths.

_Because I didn’t have him._

Flash. Turn. Flash.

_Easy to sit still when I had nothing to fight for. Nothing to lose. Now I have both._

He swallowed a low growl. But Jack just couldn’t help himself. Had to go and open his mouth. Make his accusations known. Stamp them with an official seal as a matter of record. Jesus fucking Christ, why couldn’t Jack just have retired to some tropical island like every other man his age and left them the hell alone!

That word. He couldn’t even think the word, let alone say it.

 _Piece of shit._ Will forced fingernails free from palms. Red marks revealed _. I am not anyone’s goddamn victim. I refuse to be._

Sexual assault sounded much more docile when ringing in the ears of a jury. He had left the state during the trial, but he remembered glimpses of labels. _Serial killer. Cannibal. Murderer. Insane. Inhuman._ This made Hannibal something of a curiosity to be studied and written about. The thing of urban legends. Not this time. His stomach churned. Headlines filtered with each flash of a camera. _Depraved. Abusive. Violent. And…_ Will squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block it out. He would never say it. Christ help anyone that dared to.

They spent all those months fighting their way back from it. From what happened. Will swallowed a lump of sorrow. If he had been a better person, had known they would be here, maybe…maybe he would have let Hannibal touch him sooner. Held his hand. Kissed him on the mouth. Without bursting in to tears because it hurt too much to even be in the same room. Unwillingly broken. If he had just been stronger…

Now the time was gone. He could never get it back. For either of them.

The prosecution and jury would think and say what they wanted. Ignorant assumptions and statements based on something they couldn’t ever possibly understand.

 _What the hell is it going to take?_ _Ask Silas if Hannibal can fuck me in the middle of the courtroom. Is that even a plausible defense strategy?_

It wasn’t. And if anyone was going to object it was Hannibal Lecter. He didn't even like Elias seeing him shirtless.

Someone forcefully peeled Will out of the prison uniform. He was too goddamn angry to pay whoever it was any mind. Not like he could take a bite out of them now. Given the chance he would take their entire face off to recreate a tribute of Mason’s self inflicted carving of poetic justice. Unfortunately, they had strapped the mask so tight to his face it was cutting off circulation at the base of his neck. His right hand was wrapped in an extensive amount of gauze and a splint. It should have been resting in a sling on his chest to keep it elevated. The fingers were beginning to swell. Just a new ache to add to his grocery list of injuries. Another thing to piss off his darling husband. What he wouldn’t give for a fifth of a bottle of aspirin chased by whiskey. For some odd reason, the guards seemed less than amendable helping inmates after they tried to murder their superior.

_He had it coming._

Through blurred vision he watched two agents divest Hannibal of his uniform in a windowed lab on the opposite side of the hall. They both stood in plain white t-shirts and pale grey boxers. Their bare feet cold on cement struck him as entirely too frail. Too human. With layers and layers of glass and walls and doors. He felt the weight of it all crushing him. A faint tremor of nausea fluttered in his stomach. His mouth pressed firmly together, brows scrunching, locking the older man’s gaze and hoping it conveyed all he felt.

_Is this our life now? Where I can see you? And nothing more._

Will jerked as the camera flashed again. The words turned to ash in his mouth. He had heard them before. They had already mourned the loss of one another from a distance. Without touch, returned to quiet breathing of the walls they shared.

 _We barely survived. Hannibal…_ His eyes started to burn. _I can’t._ _I don’t want to lose you again._

His hand tightened over the concealed scar on his stomach. He would haunt the disintegrating part of their past, wade through the torment of their pain all over again, if it meant they were together. When he had known, felt, Hannibal on the other side of a closed door fading like morning beams of dust across pages. It was never locked to him. He could go in. Follow. Look from the safety of the other side of room and simultaneously plead for space and security of the older man’s ever watchful presence. He wanted to beg Hannibal not to care for him again.

_How fucked up is it that I would rather go through it all again? The months of torture. The degradation. And abuse. Just to be anywhere but here. I just want to be with you. Fighting you every step of the way as you try and care for me._

The older man sensed his thoughts and emotions spiraling out of control, catching hopeless mist of tears in his eyes.

Fair lashes swept slowly down and then up once as a bright flash of a camera went off. _Breathe._

He let his eyes fall closed. Felt the churning ocean tides pull until he was standing in the gurgling water of a stream. Will saw Hannibal beside him and reached for his hand, the smooth glide of fingertips tracing up his palm and—

The butt of a gun jammed against his spine. “Inmate!”

Will hissed frustration between teeth then looked to his left. “I almost killed your boss with my bare hands ten minutes ago. Do you really want to _push_ me?”

“Operative word is ‘almost.’ And I’m not afraid of you.”

 _Fuck._ He howled a string of expletives. Did it have to be him? Really? _Him._ Of all the people the FBI had to choose from and it had to be—

“Zeller…” Will flicked disdain to the right and peered beyond a bulky digital camera perched on a tripod. “Haven’t you retired or been fired yet? Or buried beneath b-rated tabloid journalism you happen to be fucking by now?”

The shadow shifted in front of a bright light. “You would be so lucky. Oh wait. You’re back here being processed as an inmate for a second time. Hear there’s an electric chair with your name on it. Is that luck? Or Fate? Or just the world righting a wrong?”

Will reigned in a jerking sensation of muscle bent on wrapping around a throat with a tense smile as a grip tightened on his shoulder. God, he hated that smug bastard. He would be more than happy to give Zeller a half day. By ensuring he ended up alongside Jack in either the sick bay or the morgue.

Blue latex gloves pulled roughly on his left hand. “Open your fist.”

He looked down. His bracelet with the equations was missing. No, no, no. He was wearing it when they brought him down. A frantic uptick of his heart made his breath quicken. He searched the room and spotted it laid out on a sterile white stretch of paper beneath a set of cameras. When had they taken it? Two hands pried at his fingers. Then a third. His mouth went dry. They wanted the wedding rings.

“No!” The younger man tried to jerk away and heaved against the wall of a bulletproof vest. “Go fuck yourself if you think for a—“

“You can cooperate, or I can ask him to make you cooperate!” Zeller took a menacing step forward and gestured to the agents on either side of him. “Got it, Graham? You wanna get tazed again? Because I’m happy to pull the trigger.”

Will looked up to find Hannibal watching closely, replying to something Price had said in the other room. He searched a gloomy face, eyes darting frantically, pleading. He didn’t know what he was asking for. Or what he expected Hannibal to do. What could he do? He was being selfish. They were both at the mercy of trigger fingers and the system. The younger man didn’t want them to take his rings. They were his. Hannibal had given them to him. It was all he had left.

The older man seemed to pick up the vibration of his thoughts and winced. Then slid his own wedding band free before placing it in a gloved palm. Hannibal looked away, absently touching the empty patch of skin.

“Hey! Graham! Did you hear me?”

“It’s…” The younger man slumped, anger fleeing him in a few weak breaths. “…Lecter.”

“I don’t care who the fuck your delusions say you are. You are a _killer_. Give me the evidence. Now.”

Hannibal was trying to show him how to let go. But he didn’t _want_ to let go. He wanted to fight them. Make them saw off his entire hand and put it in evidence, chilled in a morgue drawer to join Miriam Lass with a handwritten tag reading: _Here lies the final resting place of the only good Will Graham had in his entire life._

It was all detached and devoid of emotion. He hated this place and everything it stood for. Humans reduced to base components and elements, dissected in fibers and personal affects of not who they were, but what they belonged to. It was an endless catalogue of stripped identity. Winston. Hannibal. His clothes. His bracelet. Their rings. Their lives.

Maroon eyes softened, sweeping over his face, mouthing the words, “Just look at me.”

_Christ, don’t make me do this…_

Will felt Zeller twisting the rings from his finger. He barely registered the sting of pain when skin over his knuckles tore open, metal bands slipping free. He felt the loss instantly. A knife jammed between his ribs, puncturing his heart. If this was what it felt like to let go of Hannibal, of their life they had built together, he would rather have died in the Atlantic.

Blood bubbled and then oozed over the tan lines left to haunt him. He never wanted it to heal. Tarnished silver fell to the ground, bounced, and then began to roll beneath a set of tables stacked in forensic equipment. He almost started to scream and bit down with a harsh exhale.

“Lose it and I’ll cut your fucking throat, Z,” The younger man snapped. “It was his mother’s.”

Zeller stared at him open mouthed for a full thirty seconds. Then he and an agent scrambled after the ring. A sole of a boot crushed it to a stop. Both rings were placed underneath a light and logged verbally as evidence.

“One antique ring. One onyx wedding band...” The forensic tech squinted curiously at the date carved in the metal.

_“How could I forget the day we met?”_

Will hated every second Zeller looked at it. Touched either of the rings. They were just scraps of metal to him. He grimaced and looked away, finding an unlit corner of the room and stared until his eyes ached. He was trying hard not to tear up. He knew if he looked at Hannibal he would. He heard and felt the blinding light of the camera as they photographed marks on his exposed skin, a lead weight puppet turned and angled to the appropriate degree of humiliation, by four pairs of hands.

“You killed Beverly.” A bitter voice said. “How did it feel slicing her up and putting her on display?”

“No… I didn’t…” The younger man felt blood drain from his face, wide eyes staring directly into a swirling green blue lens and shook his head, quiet. “I didn’t do that.”

_I cared for her. She was my friend._

“You let _him_ do it. Isn’t that the same thing?” Four more terse flashes went off. “Isn’t that how your mind works?”

He saw Beverly flicker to life. Moving throughout the laboratory, squinting in microscopes and smiling through thick plastic glasses as she scraped at evidence. Then she dissected, piece by piece, in a perfect straight line still smiling at Will.

“It’s…” Nausea washed over Will and he began to shake again. “It’s not the same.”

“Were you banging Doctor Lecter at the time?" A sneer flashed. "Or were your sessions more focused on literal skull fucking?”


	15. Chapter 15

Hannibal stood straight back and chin tipped proudly in front of a pristine white backdrop. Two men had taken leave of his uniform and been shooed to the other side of a closing door despite protest. Jimmy Price had never been afraid of him, just intrigued. He watched the forensic technician bustle about the lab. Not much had changed. He still squinted at all of his work even with glasses. Chewed the caps of pens when he wanted to smoke. Furrowed his brow when frustrated or exasperated by lengthy and unnecessary explanations. Sometimes pinched his lips when dealing with someone or something he disliked.

Light hit a gold band as Price leaned in with a q-tip swab and said, “You know the drill, Doctor Lecter, open wide…” Fair brows rippled, scrunched, then lifted high on a forehead. “That’s not something I thought I would be saying twice.”

_That makes two of us._

The older man opened obediently. Cotton tickled the inside of his cheek before it was capped. The thin bottle was labeled and placed on a tray. Price held out the mask and waited. Hannibal blinked at it distastefully before bowing his head and allowed it to be strapped on. It was the least he could do. The man had always been cordial with him. Even after his sentencing and imprisonment.

“Is it necessary to have us secluded during this process?” Hannibal asked, vaguely aware of the scrape beneath his fingernails.

Even in a different room, he could tell Will was shaking beneath bright lights. It may have started as fury coming off the adrenaline they had shared in the interrogation room. A glorious turn of events to alleviate both their frustrations. Clinically, he knew it would soon turn to shock. And he was several hundred feet, two doors, and several guards from being of any help to Will when it happened. He was unsure if he would be of any comfort if the younger man stood next to him. Discontent and the inkling of inadequacy gnawed at his insides.

_Will shouldn’t be here. Neither of us should._

_“Whimsy, Hannibal, is how you will be caught.”_

The older man wanted to snap the imagined neck belonging to the patronizing voice. Will was his weakness. His _only_ weakness. He was human enough to be allotted at least one. Even if the argument would be made his psychological make up did not allow for such sentiment. It could not change the fact his love for Will made him vulnerable and powerless.

“The orders were very clear.” A thin metal hook tapped against a sheet of paper before Price glanced up, frowning. “And you did try to skin Jack. I’m lenient. Not stupid.”

“He is on the verge of an anxiety attack…” Breath fogged against the plastic with a weary sigh. “I am only thinking of his well being.”

“Is that a means of manipulation?” Price pushed glasses up his nose, head tilting. “Or do you really care what happens to Will? Or just think you do?”

Well. That didn’t take long.

Clamping teeth, Hannibal offered the most friendly smile he was able to conjure. “I would keep your observations to yourself, Mister Price, if you wish this interaction to remain cordial.”

The other man shrugged. “Just curious. Textbook pathology might suggest your kind can only emote on an intellectual level.”

 _My kind?_ Eyes closed, teeth carving over a bottom lip. _Oh Mister Price._

He wasn’t wrong. Given the opportunity, Hannibal would pick Jimmy’s bones from his teeth. And he liked him. Or had for the most part up until that exact moment. If it meant helping Will then he would accept the loss of a few friends. Jack included. His former colleague had upset Will. Slandered the sanctimony of their marriage. Then made his intentions of painting Hannibal a soulless, immoral creature known with much bravado and theatrics. He flexed stiff fingers. He hoped Jack was as fastidious about having his affairs in order as he was ensuring their imprisonment. The new markings to his face would be the least of his concerns. He couldn’t be allowed to live now. Even if Will asked it of him.

_I’m sorry, darling, but he belongs to me now._

"This procedure is upsetting him," The older man reiterated distastefully. "Regardless of how you might see me, surely you are not so callous as to ignore a former friend's suffering." 

“Well, I imagine so,” Price murmured, fiddling with the focus on a camera. “He _is_ going to jail for premeditated murder. They’re going to throw the book at him. Not likely to escape the electric chair this time.”

Hannibal was a patient man. But if Jimmy Price did not shut his goddamn mouth, he was going to gut him open and string him up by his entrails.

Maroon eyes slipped to the side, tone clipped to correct. “ _Allegedly_.”

“…Allegedly. Yes.” The camera clicked a few times. A nervous throat cleared. “My apologies.” The shorter man hovered behind the camera, shifting weight from foot to foot. “Doctor Lecter?”

“Yes?”

_What? What other ignorant, offensive remark have you to say to me now?_

“I…” Price fiddled with his gloves, staring at the floor. “I have to catalogue your ring as evidence. Standard procedure.”

He could hear the click of his eyes hoping he stayed off of the Lecter menu.

Hannibal looked at the curve of metal then over at the one on Price’s finger. He tried not to stare at the wedding band veiled by latex, flare of jealousy then resentment burning the pit of his stomach. It was a ghost of a thing, pale and protected. All his promises. All his vows of shelter and protection. Worn by someone else. By others. But denied to them both. Bitterness tasted of decayed moss on a forest floor.

“What is it the correctional institution finds threatening about a marital band?” Hannibal asked darkly before lighting his words with soft concern. “At least…let Will keep his.”

“Sorry, Doctor.” Price shook his head and held out a palm. “It’s for your own safety. And his.”

He turned the band on his finger once. The first time he had seen it the ring had been covered in blood. His and Will’s intermingling on a stretch of road where they had almost lost one another. A quivering, fragile thing slipping over bruised knuckles. How exquisitely it had hurt. Far more than the extensive physical blows of a hurtling vehicle. Tearful blue eyes gazing up. Will’s voice soft with trepidation, trying to maintain his gaze, as if Hannibal might deny him. As if they had ever been able to truly escape one another. Nearly drowned out by the murmur of the crowd and approaching sirens. If objects were imbued with the passage of time, he knew this ring held frail tears and fierce love pressed against it with lips.

When he looked up, Will was struggling against Zeller, wild eyed and fighting to hold on to the last part of Hannibal that clung to his skin. He lowered his eyes and pulled his own ring free, setting it carefully in a palm. Will would have to learn what it was like to live without him. Even if it meant slowly suffocating. The thought filled him with a sense of dread. Fear and desperate loneliness embraced every part of the younger man before coming under his care. Wounded dog skirting the surroundings of his office warily, unsure whether to lunge for a kill or reach for the caress of comfort. How many evenings had he spent drawing Will out of isolated darkness, careful to maintain his distance, offering role as confidant in one hand and a syringe of burning flame in the other?

_I have returned you to the Fate I once dragged you free of._

Fingers closed around it. “Thank you.”

“I hope you will not be offended if I do not welcome you for taking my life from me,” Hannibal returned coldly, voice shuddering against choked tears.

Jimmy was just about to catalogue the evidence on paper when something crashed. A soft box bulb sputtered against a tangle of cables on the floor.

“Price! Price! Get in here!” Someone shouted frantically.

Zeller set the ring against a tray and sighed dramatically. “Pardon me.”

Hannibal bent to retrieve it and stopped. It was as much a part of him now as Will was. It was his. He was not prepared to let go of either. His gaze strayed to the men standing just outside. They were paying rapt attention to the shrieks in the other room. He plucked up the ring, bent his head forward, and slid the band against grain of teeth until it was situated between molars and cheek. The taste of metal filled his mouth. They had searched him already. He had to be careful to speak quietly, to avoid it been seen or slipping free. He would rather not swallow or choke on it unless absolutely necessary. Now if he could keep Price's hawk like eyes occupied from noticing it was gone. 

Jimmy crossed the hall and poked his head in the next room. “You rang?”

Another light fell and cracked against a table.

“Jesus!”

“I swear, Zeller, you are more of a queen than I am some days. Stop overreacting.”

“I am not overreacting!” Brian Zeller appeared, pressing fingers to a fresh split on his lip and gestured wildly towards two guards struggling to keep Will restrained with a pair of surgical shears. “He won’t fucking cooperate!”

The glass panes rattled. Will was thrown up against it, tattered t-shirt hanging open on his chest. Hannibal took a step forward, jaw clenching. He caught the movement of guards outside his room and stilled. They kept alert eyes on him and one hand on their automatic rifles. It would only escalate the situation if he took action. A gash was bleeding from the younger man’s right brow, dripping in his eye. Zeller had spoken out of turn. Will had defended himself. His husband was hurt. Yet again. Hannibal’s expression blackened. He was too exhausted to kill every single one of them. They were making it quite difficult not to.

“I want to take these photos and get black out drunk. I can’t do that if he won’t _let_ me.”

“Did you try asking nicely?” A patronizing tone inquired.

“Jimmy—“

The forensic tech tripped out the door, passed the guards, and leaned in.

Jimmy gestured at the situation behind him with a frown, tone stern. “Your husband is…causing some issues. Any suggestions?”

_Have your men take their hands off him before I plunge sharp objects through their bodies to leave Jack a welcome home present from the Ripper. Yours and your colleague included._

The thought floated away from him, ringing turning into the sound of 'your husband.' Mister Price had not said 'Will Graham' or 'Will.' He had said husband. The older man pursed lips warily, brows drawing low. It was the first time he had heard someone from the Bureau, from their former lives, say it. Without malice. Without derision or disbelief. There was no bite to the words, no question mark at the end of it. Just a statement. A fact.

"Did you misspeak just now?"

A brow wrinkled.

"You called him my husband."

"According to the initial findings, it states the two of you are married. You were both wearing rings when they brought you in. You are married, are you not?" The man looked back at Hannibal patiently, light eyes open and honest, waiting for his response. "Whether or not the marriage is 'official is irrelevant. It is real to the both of you."

Closing his eyes, Hannibal reformed the words he had initially thought to something much more civil before replying, “My husband is sensitive about his physical appearance. He is adverse to being touched.”

'My husband' bloomed a deep ache in his chest, lingering on his tongue with a shaky exhale.

“Shy?” Faint silver brows lifted. “Or just skittish?”

“Traumatized. Ashamed and predisposed to acts of violence when presented with the threat of abuse would be more accurate.” Hannibal rolled his thumb into a palm and tested the give of the bone once more. He wanted to keep Will safe. “Less eyes and hands upon him might make it easier. It might diffuse the situation. And I would be personally grateful. The day has been…arduous and long.”

_And the longer you test my patience, the less likely you or your colleague will make it of this alive. My current survival rate and William’s will go down drastically given Jack’s orders to ‘shoot on sight’ should we defend ourselves._

“Tell Will to close his eyes and rest upon the banks of the stream.”

Jimmy stared at him with a perplexed expression before returning to the other room. The older technician said something to his assistance and then to the guards holding Will firmly. They let go, the taller of the two shouting something back. Price said something else with a shrug. Both stormed off a second later. The glass door swung open.

“Hey! Hey! Where are you going? Get back here!” Zeller stood in the hall, fists shaking at his side before whirling around, brown eyes following as the other man breezed passed him. “Look, Jimmy, I know you hate me, but do you want me _dead_! Are you even listening? Jim—Fuck this.” A firearm yanked from a holster. He stalked back to the room and slammed the gun against a stainless steel table. “Move. Go ahead, Graham, just try it.”

A hateful snarl twitched against Hannibal’s nose.

The younger man returned quietly to the plain backdrop, elbows locked against his waist to hold what remained of the knit fabric together. Zeller lifted surgical scissors. Will shied away and then closed his eyes. His cheek began flinching as the rest of the shirt was cut away. He was still holding on to shreds of fabric and thread by the time it was stripped from him. Narrow shoulders slumped, neck folding weakly, giving in.

Hannibal thought of Will cowering against their bathroom sink, desperately trying to hold soaking fabric and brutality tightly to his frame as it was peeled away. The older man tore off his t-shirt, balling it up against cuffed wrists, and tried to find wavering blue eyes with a steadying gaze. They refused to look at him. He grit teeth and tried to keep quiet. He wanted to go to him. Hannibal tried not to stare at the bruises and gashes on his torso or notice the way he began to tremble as the camera began flashing. He didn’t notice his own. All he could see was Will curled forward, the tremble of vulnerability rushing over him, on the verge of tears.

“Shit!” A digital camera clattered to ground. “Christ! Jim. Jim. Jimmy!“

"I swear…” Muttering drifted from the room. “I have the most incompetent colleague on the planet.”

Will stood facing away, back to the camera revealing a map of violent markings from fine white scars running from shoulder blades to raised lanced flesh dragging across hips. They faded beneath smudges of yellow and grey violet. Shoulders shook. He was crying.

_“I was always told scars add character. Do you think they say that to negate the fact it also manifests visceral ugliness of the actions causing them?”_

The older man’s throat tightened and took two steps forward, pressing fingertips against the glass. He didn’t deserve this. To be put on display. Exposed. Not after Hannibal had kissed every mark until they healed, until he convinced Will day after day he was no less beautiful for having them.

" _I hate that he is always a part of me. With me.”_

_“I am always with you, William. He is a fleeting nightmare. And he is dead.”_

_“I hate seeing them. How can you stand to look?”_

_“My hatred for what was done to you is a separate entity from what I see when I look at you.”_

_“His marks?”_

_“No. Your strength. Your beauty. And a fatal reminder of my mortality and yours. I would die to protect you. Will. I will never allow something like this to happen to you again.”_

_“You can’t make that promise.”_

_“No…perhaps not. But I can promise to worship you, can I not? Every part of you.”_

What good was he? As a man? As a husband? He couldn’t even spare Will from this shame.

“No, no, no!” Zeller dragged his colleague out in the hall and shook his head furiously, pale faced with a camera shaking in his hands. “Jimmy, I can’t.”

“Afraid of him? That’s just a flesh wound. Jeez. You shouldn’t have riled him up. Out of the two he is the less dangerous you know.”

“No, no—“ The younger man made an abortive gesture. “It’s his—the. Goddammit. The photographs. I can’t take them. There too…”

 _Vile?_ Fury crept tension down the underside of the older man’s jaw.

Price leveled his gaze. “I’m sure you’ve seen worse on corpses, Z.”

Will never wanted anyone to see them, careful to keep the scars hidden in public. He chose garments to conceal them. Dressed and bathed behind closed doors even when alone. After a year, he had learned to let Elias see them in passing, but never touch. He never let anyone touch his scars except Hannibal. Then sometimes Will would ask Hannibal to change them, shape them, reclaim the canvas of skin with marks of his own. They would be indistinguishable to anyone else looking on. The older man knew the inflection of each one beneath the press of tender fingertips. The others would see violence and nothing more.

“Christ, _look_ at him.” A camera thrust into the other man’s hands, tapping loudly on the digital screen. “He’s not… he’s not dead. He’s just…fuck. I’ve never seen anything like this. I mean on posters and billboards maybe. But not this close. Not like that.”

Light eyes flicked down to the camera and then up and over to Will.

“Oh…” Murmurs of revulsion or pity were muffled by a palm.

With a weak breath, Hannibal pushed free of the glass and let his gaze fall to the floor. Will was not his victim. He touched a phantom protection missing from his ring finger. They were hurting him. Hannibal could do nothing, but watch and wait.

“Hey. I’ll take him. You photograph Doctor Lecter. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, man. I can… Jesus. I almost feel sorry for him.”

Will had always loathed pity. The fragile teacup. The broken pony. The man too estranged from the concept of love to date, let alone be loved in return.

“Go on. I’ve got Will.”

 _Good._ Hannibal released a stony sigh. _Price will be far more gentle with Will. He deserves gentle. Not crass bravado and contention._

Acid burned the insides of his mouth putrid green. What possessed him to think such a thing? When had it become normal to look across the room and favor Will being hauled off in handcuffs because it was done more softly? It reached the corner of his lips and sliced to a crimson frown of self loathing. Abhorrent. To believe for even a single second captivity was acceptable if provided with the right circumstances. Would he too find the noose they put at Will’s throat less reprehensible if it were woven in only the finest silks?

He would not accept this. He clenched teeth till his jaw shook. Grating metal sparked. A thought drifted to the forefront of his mind— _I should have killed you, Will._ —then turned to smoke. All his lengthy discourse on the ethics of humane slaughter and ensuring his intended dinner remained without fear. An ideal. A fairy tale. Profane hypocrisy. Captivity and death waited in the room beyond. It lurked in the halls and rooms they had yet to see. It was not poetic. It was not beautiful. It was gut-wrenchingly ugly. And it wore the mask of Will’s face.

_I let myself believe I could give you a home. A life. Tied to mine. I have brought you nothing but suffering._

The camera ceased flashing. A shadow shifted from behind the camera. Will was doubled over, forehead bent on knees, sobs wracking his beaten body. Jimmy knelt beside him, silent, before draping a white lab coat over him. Despair clawed free from the older man’s lungs in soundless prayer of forgiveness in a name. Sacrifice was the light vanishing from blue eyes with tear soaked cheeks. The curve of soft lips rippling with anguish. He had led his lamb, his affectionate and docile lamb, to slaughter. Hatred rippled over points of teeth. Hannibal hadn’t even the decency to kill Will himself. To spare him this grotesque dissection of self. At the mercy of strangers. He had denied him a dignified end.

_“You’ll have nothing but indignity and the company of the dead.”_

_No…_ Handcuffs rattled as his fists shook. _I have Will. I could save him from himself. But I could not save him from his nightmares. I could not save him from me._

“You’re a sick fuck, Doctor Lecter.” A hoarse rasp accused with a flash of dark eyes.

Glint of defiance lifted then fell through a rush of salty ocean air, seeing nothing but blood pooling around his feet and jagged rocks.

“No," Brian Zeller growled. "Don’t look at me. Eyes on the ground.”

_“Like you, Will, he needs a family to escape what’s inside him.”_

Crimson spilled in the caverns of a torn chest, rising higher still to seep from unblinking eyes. Hannibal let it fill every hollow and empty space within him, until it suffocated his heart, the way he had held Will beneath its surface and forced him to drown within him.

Will would no longer be the shelter of protection to keep him at bay. Hannibal was no longer Will’s escape or his storm. He would kill him yet. With the most tender of his cruelty. With love. Bound to his side.


	16. Chapter 16

Will counted white tile in yet another hallway and tried to keep stride. _Thirty six, thirty seven, thirty eight._ He felt black ink crease his fingerprints. His cheeks felt raw from where they had shaved his beard to document the contusions on his face. The overhead lights felt too bright. Too raw. Too real. He could hear his lungs fill and deflate with stale oxygen in spite of the heart failing in his chest. His frantic eyes wanted to remain unseen, unable to hide behind a thicket of curls or glasses. He was wearing a new uniform of neon orange, adorned in a set of chains looping form his waist to wrists, connected at his ankles. He felt more exposed now than underneath the studio lights and weight of cameras cataloguing every inch of him.

 _Christ._ An entire group of strangers were going to see those photos. The entire Bureau. His former friends. Jack. A goddamn judge and jury if the prosecution had their way he suspected. His skin crawled. He just wasn’t going to think about it. He couldn’t.

A hoarse voice called to him. “Will.”

Will’s gaze snapped up to find Hannibal being led down a cross section of hallway, straining against the grip of two burly men and twisting to see him.

“Wait. Can you just…” The younger man turned to look at Zeller, pulling slightly in the direction of the voice. “…hold on a second. _Please_. I…I’m sorry about earlier. Just for a second. Can you do that? I’ll—”

_Fuck._

“—mind my manners.”

Arms crossed over a lab coat, fingers ticking then coming to a sudden stop.

“If I step out of line, you can shoot me. Promise.”

Brian Zeller refused to look at him. Hadn’t been able to since he fled the evidence room. Will wasn’t sure if he was revolted by the scars—were they as ugly as he had once said? Seen? Some weak part of him stirred.—or taken on some form of guilt for having seen them at all. He let go and nodded to the two guards.

Will and Hannibal hobbled towards one another until they stood beneath the yellow flicker of a lamp overhead. Haunted shadows cast sharp down their faces. They stopped at the edge of illumination and took each other in silently. The older man’s eyes were bloodshot and smudged in grey, ruddy mouth pale and pinched in a grim line. His hair was cropped short against his forehead. A fringe of silver dusted white. Much shorter than it had ever been. Will knew if he ran his fingers through it, it would feel rough like sandpaper, like his own. They were mirror images again. He hadn’t noticed it before. Blue gaze fell on the emblazoned barcode. Hate scoured the back of his throat. Just another form of branding. He wished he could tear it off. He thought he was done seeing Hannibal chained. Tormented. Stripped of freedom. Dragged from Will to survive on forced isolation and what little comfort his memory provided.

_Would you be happy there?_

“They cut your hair…” Will murmured at last.

“Regrettably,” Hannibal said in a low reply. “I know how fond you were of it.”

There was no warmth in his voice. No light in his gaze. The younger man felt like he was seeing him for the first time in prison, file gripped in a clammy palm as he waded closer to the apparition on the other side. Emptiness had clung to the chasms of his face then. It held tighter to him now. Tighter than Will had been able to in the last few months.

A whisper brushed through him. _Or ever…_

“I know…”

He swallowed. He wasn’t about to cry again. No matter how much he wanted to put his arms around him and bury his face against the strength of a chest, praying to a thousand gods to wake up. Just wake up.

“…you hate it short. This short anyway.”

Maroon eyes flicked across a flinching cheek then down to the barcode on Will’s chest. The corner of lip curled in disdain then vanished. “Coquettish boyishness no longer becomes an old man.”

“You’re my old man…” Will protested with a wavering smile, shifting a soft cloth shoe lightly against a rough cast. “…and I think you look as good as the day I met you. Maybe more even.”

Hannibal visibly winced—pained by the reminder of his freedom or Will’s adoration— and shifted away to hover on the crescent edge of light, tone flat. “Flattery will give you whatever your heart desires.”

Something wasn’t right. Shadowy resignation was cracking the veneer of the face he loved so much. Will felt Hannibal pulling away from him like a tide rushing against his legs. Or dragging them down to the ocean floor as it once had. He fought against it. More violently than before. He would save him. Save them both.

Will thrashed against the sensation, moving through the light and throwing himself against melting shadows. His mouth pressed to an ear, gripping hands hard in his own, whispering, “Please. Please don’t go.”

_Don’t let this take you away. Don’t shut me out._

Rough hands hauled him forward by the front of a uniform. The younger man collided against a chest, breath knocking out of him. He didn’t have the chance to catch it before Hannibal snagged a fresh bead of red across his bottom lip, biting until Will kissed back.

“No touching!” A guard barked.

The younger man whimpered against the feverish assault of a tongue prying his lips open. He began to wrap around slick sweetness. Every part of him ached for closeness. A growl made him jump, hand snapping on the front of his uniform, command clear: _Be still_. A slick tongue pushed something round and hard against the front of his teeth. Will scrunched his brows, tip of his tongue following after. The object shifted roughly along the scar inside his cheek.

“I said—“

“Time to go, William,” Hannibal whispered, lips sliding through curls as he pushed away.

The younger man prodded lightly at metal, fighting to keep confusion and concern from flashing across his face. He held on, knees weakening at the thought of having to walk away.

“Let go, Will. I do not want them to separate us by force. And I would prefer the both of us alive for awhile longer.”

 _What the hell did you just…? Oh_. His lashes fluttered over a rush of tears. Hannibal's wedding band. A pained noise escaped as his lips parted, jamming the ring behind smoothly ground molars.

Clinging fingers shook against hands, raw emotion whispered. “I’m not ready.”

“You will be.” They slowly slid free of his own. “Take care of yourself?”

The older man was pulled from him in a clash of metal.

“I-I will. Hannibal? Hannibal?”

Black stamped numbers were the last thing Will saw as Hannibal was led away. He didn’t turn. Not even a glance. Then he was gone. He was left with only the metallic taste of unfulfilled promises choking him. And the dread of not knowing whether the sensation was loss or the tolling of goodbye.

* * *

Leathery fingertips swiped through a gallery of photos on a phone screen, grip tightening on an arm of a chair. A stitched gash above a brow. Yellow grey hash marks of a shoulder and ribs.

Navy suede shoes stepped in to view a foot from him.

“They said you wanted to see me.” Heavy pine trees fell in a forest.

Nostrils flared. “I requested a meeting with you over three hours ago.”

“There were other things I needed to attend to.”

Silas looked up, mouth drawing to a tight line and asked, “Do you have every intention of a t-trial, Agent Crawford, or are you hoping my clients disappear in the s-system well before then?”

Square teeth glistened. “They haven’t gone anywhere. They are right where you left them.”

“That…” Sharp eyes lifted over a rim of silver glasses as Silas rose from the chair. “…was not what I asked you.”

“Then maybe you ought to rephrase the question,” Jack replied with a languid roll of shoulders.

“You and your men are t-taking liberties. I strongly advise you t-to encourage them against such continued action.”

“Here is where you and I are going to disagree, Silas.” The agent pulled a hand from a pocket and glanced down at a watch. “My men are using the appropriate amount of force against two notorious murderers to contain a dangerous situation. It’s self defense.”

“Violence disguised as self defense is still violence, Agent Crawford. A judge and jury may disagree.”

“Oh…” Another smile. “We’ll see about that, won’t we.” 

“I would like t-to see my clients now.”

“You’re going to have to wait. We seem to be having some trouble locating them at the moment. Now if you'll excuse me... I have another appointment.”

* * *

Crusting flesh peeled. Rust flecked embers discarded as a fire died within a mantle place. Blunt fingernails picked at the scab on a knuckle to expose raw pink flesh. They dug deeper with harsh scrapes. Crescent blood bubbled up to the surface, trickling between grooves of fingers. Will lifted the ring finger to his mouth, soothing the sting with a wet trail of his tongue. He had been opening the scab since it was gifted to him a week ago. It was infected. He jammed a thumbnail just above the wound. Pain sparked. He let out a hazy exhale. He knew he should stop. It was dangerous to stir awake his inner demons, to give in to their cravings.

The impulse to ground his erratic emotion with pain, to regain a loss of control skittered beneath his skin. He glanced at the healing wounds on his wrists. He had tried to reach that particular control with his teeth in the endless dark confinement of solitary. Like he had when was a boy. He wasn’t a child anymore hiding underneath beds and in closets from nightmares. He had grown and changed and become. Now he was the monster confined to sterile and bleach white of a cramped cell.

His methods of coping fluctuated with the situation. Without the smooth resonance of reason to hold, kiss, touch, he had traded teeth for nails. He drew them away to examine, caked in dried and fresh blood. He was still digging for it. In search of even an ounce of control. Self harm was tricky. An overwhelming rush of sensation masquerading as self soothing, promising false relief from throat tightening anxiety. It wasn’t real. It was temporary and fleeting. His nails clutched tightly around his forearm, prodding at developing scar tissue. He would stop. He would fight through it. He let go and watched red turn pink then white. He wished Hannibal would hold him down, set fire to the memories of their past, and brush harsh kisses against his wounds. The older man returned a balance of control to him as easily as Will lost it. Far easier to relinquish knowing Hannibal would shake him apart, admire the pieces, and then reward him with an entirely different design. He had grown accustomed to the calm forced grounding brought him.

Will had no idea where Hannibal was. He was in a private holding cell. Labeled too dangerous at the moment to join gen pop. He didn’t know if his own husband was in the same wing or if they had moved him to an entirely different location. Was he even in the same goddamn city? State? He lifted his wrist, pressing bone lightly to the slick front of teeth. Would he ever see him again? Alive? He started to shake. His breath hot. At the trial. They had to be their together then. Didn’t they? He pushed points against flesh in a light scrape, scrubbing at tired eyes. How much longer would it be until Silas arrived?

Snow falling lightly against an abandoned field wafted over him. “How are you feeling, Will?”

Shining sapphires swept over him with long lashes inside a glimpse of winter chilled skin. A single rose bloomed red in the land of white with the faintest light of a tentative smile.

“Like this is a final indignity...” Will remarked with mirthless laughter. “Or a punch line.” He rubbed at light stubble on his jaw, nodding at the wall opposite of him. “I hope that glass is more bullet proof than the last one. Would hate to end up with a face full of lead like Chilton. Hannibal likes my bone structure the way it is.”

Alana considered him from the safety of a doorframe. She seemed undecided if she was coming or leaving. Crinkle of a round nose giving thought to if she wanted to study Will from afar or draw closer to be near him. All these years and she hadn’t decided.

_Typical. Irritating but typical. Am I so incompatible you can no longer share a room with me?_

She leaned with ease of slender legs swept up by thin navy suede heels. A dove pencil skirt flared slightly at knees, hugging tighter to hips clasped by a thin silver belt. A gauzy blouse hung loosely around her shoulders in a sweeping neckline, billowing around her delicate folded arms hugging an FBI file folder. Her shining black hair was long. Coiled neatly against the side of her throat and spilled across the soft swell of breasts.

 _Hell…_ Blue eyes darted down and to the side, heart stuttering on an off beat of long forgotten admiration. _She’s still beautiful._ _Unforgiving in her vengeance. But beautiful none the less._

“How’s Margot?” The younger man asked roughly. “The kid?”

“Kids. I have two children now…” Alana answered, soft spoken, a smile flitting from her mouth to her eyes as she glided through the room and took a seat across from him. “A daughter and a son. All very well, thank you.”

A twinge of pain touched his fingertips, curling them inward against his palm. _Kids…_ The relentless sensation traveled up his arm and spread tight across his chest. He had wanted to tell Hannibal in Italy. A family. They could have had a family.

_Too late now._

“Glad to know your life remains relatively undisturbed.” Resentment twanged sharp across his tongue, oil slick burning across the Louisiana bay. “You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

Alana blinked recognition with a slow sweep, inhaling once to keep a reply to herself. Ever the image of self control. She wasn’t ruled by impulse. Will had known that since the day he had kissed her, once, just once, and she had left him with his heart in his hands and his grip on reality scratching inside a fireplace.

“Let’s talk about you.”

“So. This isn’t a personal visit? Not that it ever was with you.”

Hurt skipped across the water of eyes then sunk to a sandy floor. “This is personal, Will. I…” A pink mouth pressed then spoke quietly, “I never stopped caring for you. I care what happens to you now. I care what happened to you all these years. I care.”

The words connected like a blow to his stomach.

_No you don’t._

He felt the room spin. Will roughed toes against soles of shoes and pressed the ball of his foot against the wedding band hidden beneath. Pressed until it hurt. Till the pain grew sharp, clawing up his leg.

“Talk to me, Will.”

“I’m married to a psychiatrist, Alana, you are going to have to try harder than that.”

The folder fell open. “I’d like to show you some—“


	17. Chapter 17

“—photographs.”

Hannibal ignored the booming tenor of the voice addressing him and stared at a far wall. Jack had been harassing him for over an hour and a half now. It was beginning to grate on his soul. To be honest he had never been more bored in his entire life. Even their snide commentary had become stale. Other than making several of the man’s protégé cry or scamper away fearing for their lives during attempted interrogations, he had very little to amuse himself. He needed to be amused. To keep the sick churning in his stomach at bay whenever his thoughts turned to Will. It was nearly impossible to think of anything else. He was worried. Not a word from or about him since they had last seen the other in the hallway.

Something cool brushed at the corners of his mind. He refocused attention. He wasn’t sure how he knew. It could have been the ache in his bones. Or the way the structure around him seemed to breathe the scent of winter. He knew Will was in a room nearby, even on the other side, a thin barrier keeping them apart.

 _Will…_ He gathered strength, trying to push his amplified presence through drywall as if he could project his image to wherever Will was _. I am here. Do you feel me?_

Jack tapped the photographs again, leaning over the table until his shadow filled the room. His eye was less swollen than the last time he had seen it. But the last time the older man had seen it, Will was slamming bloodied knuckles into it and screaming threats. Hannibal let a proud smile flicker and fade. He had no doubt if given the opportunity, his loving mongoose, would make good on the promise. He admired his own work, grooves etched deep in midnight skin, and offered a sincere smile up at cold eyes.

“I told you to look at them, Doctor Lecter.”

_Oh, I’m looking…_

He looked down. His favorite subject was laid out before him. Will. He sifted with an idle sweep of an index finger. There was a mixture of photographs. Some featured specific flesh marks photographed during processing and others had been sampled from either his or Will’s cell phone, stamped images of time. Of their lives together.

He touched a plush pink smile beaming at him against the backdrop of their sailboat proudly holding up a scaly silver blue tuna. Another was the younger man fast asleep in the middle of their bed, arms slung around Winston, face buried against ears without an inch of room for him. A rectangular one hummed with splashing and laughter showing Will chasing Elias through ocean waves with Hannibal in pursuit shouting. (They had run off with a bottle of his Monte Blanc and a handful of puff pastries. Impish miscreants that they were. He had caught them in the end, throwing Will and then Elias, into the ocean. They in turn had forcibly held him down, with Peter’s help no less, and buried him beneath a mountain of sand.) At the edge of the frame, all three dogs chased after all three men with lolling tongues and wagging tails. Peter had downed half a bottle of wine by the time they finished and was laughing so hard it was a wonder he managed to take a photo at all. There was one more of the same night, all four of them smiling in the photograph on a plaid cashmere blanket. They all had gotten terribly drunk around a roaring fire and fallen asleep beneath the stars.

Plucking through the pile, the older man found the more salacious content hidden underneath. His fingertips moved over a cropped shot of an arcing spine with hands bound lightly by a belt, bite marks dotting from divots to just beneath a right shoulder blade. He heard the echo of pleasured cries, palm warm from smacking a pale pinked cheek. He picked up another, rose flushing his cheeks with a spark of desire. The image was grainy, sunset bleeding orange and red against the sky, retaliation for Hannibal sending ‘artistic nudes’ to Elias on their travels. Sand had been cool and cushioning against his knees. He had heard the click before the flash, growled disapproval, before ocean and salt filled his throat a second later. Will had lain back on the plastic beach chair, sated and entirely too pleased with having a photograph of Hannibal sucking his cock. (It had apparently fallen into Peter’s hands and they had returned to find one of Elias in compromising positions, photocopied and taped from floor to ceiling of their bedroom. Hannibal had never asked if this was because Elias found the photo arousing enough to need such thorough attentions, or if Peter was merely showing off the dexterous flexibility of their youth.)

“Why, Jack…” Hannibal plucked up the photograph to admire it awhile longer. Will never looked more charming than when dusk and pleasure painted his face. He had tasted exquisite. “I never realized you also vied for our young profiler’s attentions. May I ask…what bothers you more? The fact you let him slip out of your hands?” He pushed the photo across the table until it touched tensed fingers splayed on the table. “Or he fell into mine and chose me?”

“Answer the question,” Jack spat, disgust glinting in black eyes.

Hannibal watched the man’s hand twitch. He tried not to smile. Such a visceral reaction spoke volumes. Jack wanted nothing more than to crumple the photograph into a tiny mangled ball. But he couldn’t. It was evidence. He had to keep it. And look. He coughed several times to disguise a laugh. The older man wondered if all Jack’s nightmares somehow now concluded in Will and he fucking in one way or another.

“If you are going to present photos of my husband’s exquisite form in hopes for a show, I am going to have to decline.” The older man leaned back in the chair, draping an arm across it and considered the shortened length of his chains, and how nicely they would look at Jack’s throat. “He is rather specific in his desires not to share me. Now, if you’re offering me a moment alone then…”

* * *

“…I might reconsider looking at these if I could actually see them, Alana,” Will grumbled, squinting at glossy color littering the table.

“Here.”

Slim fingers held out a pair of dark tortoise Cadore Moda glasses.

“You left these in my car.”

A high brow wrinkled. He wondered where he had misplaced yet another pair of glasses. He had almost as many as he did dogs in his old life. He had stopped wearing them almost altogether as his relationship and therapy progressed with Hannibal. He saw no reason to hide behind them anymore. Even if it did make reading and looking at crime scene photographs more difficult.

“Never took you as sentimental,” Will noted dryly, holding out his hand.

Alana plopped the glasses in his palm, arcing a fair black brow. “Never took you as far sighted. I always thought they were a prop.”

_So did everyone else._

“Fair enough.”

Glasses slipped up the bridge of a nose. Will let out a melancholy exhale. He was looking down at a half dozen polaroids. Ones he and Hannibal taken. The ones he had carefully taped to frame the glass ceiling of their little yacht. He shivered and looked up, passed Alana, and studied his reflection in the glass.

_Are you close, Hannibal?_

A cool palm settled against his knuckles. “May I ask you something?”

“Do I have a choice?” The younger man bristled and pulled his hand away.

There was once a time he would have given anything, anything at all, for her to reach out and touch him, to send his quivering loneliness scattering if just for a minute or two. It felt wrong to touch Alana with their memories, his and Hannibal’s, just beneath his fingertips and looking up at him from happier moments.

Alana withdrew her hand, lips pursed, and carefully folded them in her lap. “Yes.”

“Then…fine,” The younger man huffed. “Ask.”

“Did you know…” She formed each word with a pause of staccato, crystal blue tracing the contours of his face carefully, searching for some micro expression to explain all she had seen. “…you were going to help Hannibal escape when we agreed to let the Dragon have him over whiskey and an open fire?”

Will let his hands fall in his lap and started picking at bloodied flesh. He lowered his gaze, struggling to appear passive and unmoved. His mouth flinched. He hated thinking about that night. At least thinking about everything leading up to their passionate murder of Dolarhyde. It was…distasteful. He was more sure than anything he wanted, no, needed, Hannibal to die to save himself. Right up until he wasn’t. Then it was all wrong. He needed to reach out, touch him. The gun went off. Hannibal was bleeding on the floor. And he couldn’t…take any of it back.

“I saw an opportunity…” Will murmured, slumping in the chair and fighting against vivid flashes of events. “I hadn’t yet decided.”

Hannibal clutching his side, dark eyes staring up at him, trying to hide a flash of true, brutal fear of death beneath wit. The ice cold grip of his gun. The electric shock of pain in his cheek. Loss of balance, floating and then hanging on to a rush of blood. Then red. And cold. And warmth of arms. Blossom of affection. A rush of air. Guilt. A roar of ocean. Mournful regret and desperate prayer.

“You seem to do that a lot. Remain undecided.” Quartz painted nails picked up a photo then set it back down with a slight tremble. “Or did.”

Will’s face went blank, jaw tightening. “I’m not _dead_ yet, Alana. You can refrain from using the past tense.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Not being dead? Or being indecisive?”

“Either.”

_Is Hannibal in love with me?_

“Therapy,” Will snapped, mouth trembling with a spike of fury. “It does wonders for unveiling revelations. It happened. I could have stopped him. Had the means. The motive. Opportunity.”

He was so fucking tired of explaining. What the fuck did it matter to them?

“Why didn’t you? Stop him, I mean.”

“Bewilderment.” The younger man leaned across the table, chin balanced on flexing knuckles. “And I really needed a fucking drink.”

His nose twitched, scent of reedy thyme and sesame seed bubbling in a frying pan filling his lungs. He could hear the rush of flame against metal. Feel the heat of it against his skin.

“What was that? Just now?” Alana tipped her head to the side, gesturing to his far off expression.

“A reminder.”

“Our unconscious gestures speak volumes. Will you tell me what yours is saying?”

He tried to scowl against the fingertips he was pressing unconsciously to his mouth. He felt the pressure change it to a soft smile and then a deepening frown of regret.

“He…tried to kiss me.” Will replied quietly, unsure if it was a question or a statement, lost in a strange warmth of memory settling over his shoulders. “We were in the kitchen. Fugitives on the run, Jack and the whole damn state in pursuit, and all Hannibal wanted to do was cook. I tried to remind him. He actually told me to relax.” Laughter yelped free. “The most uptight, pretentious asshole on this planet told _me_ to calm the fuck down. So he cooked. Not surprising I guess. You miss the most fundamental comforts in prison, the simple pleasures. Not that you would know that.”

Slender brows furrowed and then lifted with disbelief. “And he…kissed you then? In the kitchen.”

“No. In the pantry.” Will smirked at Alana’s obvious discomfort.

What did she think? Hannibal wouldn’t relay the entirety of that night in every gruesome and violent detail? He told Will everything. Shared his inner most person. Honest in his brutality. Alana had received vagaries and placation until he allowed her to truly see him. She had not _known_ him. Not like he had. She never would. But Will—he tucked the secure flutter of his heart away deep inside him—he knew Hannibal. All of him.

“Don’t sound so jealous, Alana. He gutted me in his kitchen. He just threatened you,” Will countered with a smug smile.

Alana tucked hair behind her ear, paling slightly and shifted in her chair. He cozied up to her over the table, wide grooved smile spreading across his face, and felt instantly lighter for some reason.

“Now that I think about it…the most intimacy we shared before this, before the fall, was in the kitchen. Hannibal cooked. I observed. I think he knew I was too tipsy to be trusted with anything of importance.”

Gaze straying to a corner of the room, Will saw beyond it and saw light touch shadows, gathering to create a vignette in his mind. He saw himself and Hannibal in the house beside the eroding bluff. He was standing on his left, leaning on the counter, watching the flames consume someone he had probably met, or interviewed, or arrested. His posture was sloped, mouth slightly open, relaxed. Lulled by the sound and watching Hannibal move with infinite ease and grace throughout the kitchen. Two wine glasses partly empty rested to their right.

“The sound of his knife on the block was so… _clear_ to me. Calming. I could hear him breathing. It was quiet. Rhythmic. Like we had waited years to end up in that exact moment.”

He watched Hannibal keep his gaze firmly locked on the frying pan in another rush of flame, line of eyes crinkling when Will looked directly up at him. He felt the lurch of his heart as a slow smile spread across the older man’s face before returning to the cutting board.

“There was this pull and I reached for a glass of wine. I barely touched him…” His voice began to waver, gripping an edge of the table. “He froze, a statue caught mid knife stroke, bottom lip caught between his teeth to catch a gasp. He was shaking. I thought he was hurt. I put my hand on his and it was so…”

His hand slid over the one gripped on the frying pan, pulling it free, and placed it against his chest, brow furrowed as the shadowed Will examined it.

A distant voice asked. “Natural?”

“Yeah. Easiest thing in the world. Easier than trying to kill him. It felt right.” Will confessed breathlessly, tears clouding his vision. “He wouldn’t answer me. Wouldn’t look at me. So when I touched his cheek, he…”

He saw his mouth moving, gesturing at the hand he held and then toward the oven. He watched the way Hannibal was staring at the hands cupped around his, how dress shoes touched the tips of his, how Will was flushed from the heat of the flame and standing closer. He saw the faintest tremble tick his fingers. A tension then release of an angled jaw. How fingertips had scalded across the scar on his forehead, pushing gingerly at clipped curls. Then a glistening maroon gaze lifted to stare openly as a ruddy mouth, fingertips drifting over his cheek, hooking under his jaw. Will had been babbling up until the last second when some part of him saw Hannibal, desperate longing shining in his eyes, leaning in to kiss him.

“I pushed him away. Found my gun. Waited to end it. End him…” The younger man’s voice scraped rough and jagged, cool tears slipping from unseeing eyes. “But I couldn’t stop thinking how warm he felt. Soft even. How human.”

“So you pushed him off a cliff?” Skepticism broke the vision apart and sent it dark once more.

_How dare you._

Of all people to question him. To say his feelings for Hannibal weren’t real. They were violent and unreasonable and insane. But they were his. And he didn’t need to, shouldn't have to, try to make anyone understand. They wouldn’t. Will still didn’t understand. They just were.

 _I love him. You don’t need to know why. Or how. I just do._

Will wrenched his gaze away and scowled at Alana, trying to rub at wet clinging to his cheeks. He smeared palm prints across plastic of a mask instead. “I was trying to kill myself. He just happened to be in the way. He always is, you see. Stubborn like that. Goddamn insufferable at times.”

“I see…?”

“Uh huh.” The younger man snorted and rolled his eyes. “What’s the point of all this exactly? Why are you here?”

Pink lips opened then closed, pausing. “I’m trying to understand.”

“You won’t.”

Alana rose smoothly from her chair and glided around the table. Will watched the trail of spectral dust her fingertips left on the aluminum table in her wake. He felt her presence hovering over him, tensing, knowing the sensation almost always followed by soul shattering connection. She had hurt him so deeply. Caused irreparable damage every time she drew him affectionately into her arms and murmured, _everything’s okay, Will,_ then pushed away _._ He wasn’t okay. He had never been okay. She had refused to see it. Refused him. And offered him jarring, brutal moments of tenderness to carry inside him with his feathered beasts and company of the dead. Hannibal had been violent with him, but it had always been real, and he never once had pushed or looked away from the blaze consuming Will.

“You preferred the _idea_ of Hannibal…” Alana mused, sitting on an edge of the table and ran her fingers across his jaw, unlatching the mask and discarding it. “The man behind his veiled persona, and when he, that soft part of him, wasn’t looking back at you on the cliff, you felt betrayed? I know that feeling, Will…” She touched his hand again and then squeezed his shoulder, softly murmuring, “I know. I felt it.”

“No. No you fucking don’t.”

Will felt sick as the sting of touch sank slowly inside of him, tearing open fresh wounds of longing, need for contact, connection. He fought against another well of tears.

_God, Hannibal, I fucking need you here. Where are you?_

“There was no veil. No persona. Just _him_ ,” The younger man’s voice shook as it rose louder and louder. “It just…took me time to see it. He was never really human. Not to me. I took us over because I realized I couldn’t live my life without him and I wasn’t ready to let go of all that entailed. Because I have loved him since he wrecked my fucking world with talk of snakes slithering by and a miraculous hand keeping our daughter alive in an ocean of blood.”

“He killed your daughter, Will! Gave you a wounded girl and told you, you were family. She wasn’t even yours. He took her anyway. Abi—”

“Don’t open your goddamn mouth!” His shout echoed over and over again in the room. “Don’t you say her name.”

Alana was washed white, trembling, curled hands resting tight against her knees. "Hannibal left us to die..."

"He left _you_ to die," Will shot back with a snarl. "He's still bitter you didn't have the good grace to kick the bucket. I didn't harbor the same feelings until about three seconds ago."

Lashes fluttered, bright blue stunned by the statement. "That isn't care, Will, it's manipulation. He is still in your head."

“I l _ove_ him, Alana! You have no idea what that feels like.”

It grew quiet, stream trickling in a lush forest of green and sun somewhere.

“He…wanted me…” Will continued, strength fleeing him as he lay his face to rest inside palms, muffled and struggling to breathe. “The broken, impossible wreck of an _unstable_ man who showed up at his door step drenched in cold sweats and babbling at all hours. He loved her too. Loved us both. And he…wanted me when no one else did. Like no one ever would. Or will.” He squeezed eyes shut trying to ease the sting. “He didn’t see broken pieces. He saw me. He stayed.” He looked up through wet lashes. “You didn’t.”

Throes of sadness fell over Alana’s face with the tip of her chin, curls spilling lush and dark. Guilt rippled through eyes, across a mouth, and slid down a scratchy throat trying to form words. “Then what is he? Not man? Not beast?”

Will closed his eyes, head tipped toward the ceiling, searching through an endless amount of snapshots of moments and time. An expression. A look. A murmured intonation of words spoken. They were all instinctively different. But all the same. They were all Hannibal.

Long lashes fell closed over tears, desperate ache breathing out, “Endless shards of gathering glass.”


	18. Chapter 18

_Uncertain footfalls creaked across a slate stone path. A key twisted a lock open before being tossed in a blooming bed of tiger lilies. He had no further use for it. Nothing left to hide. Hannibal paused in the doorway to the house overlooking the cliff, caught between the confines of this world and the prison left behind. He was stricken with a strangely vicious sense of paralysis. He waited until the feeling passed. He stepped over the threshold and stooped to take off his shoes, to line them neatly, perpendicular to a corner, as he was accustomed. The soft clothed monstrosities were covered in dirt and blood. He turned on a thrill of whim and pitched them outside._

_A startled yelp made him smile. The kind that spread wide and gathered deep in aching sharp cheeks. The muscles felt strained, worn thin by disuse. He couldn’t remember the last time he truly smiled. Joy washed over him with a dip of the sun.  
_

_“Hey! Watch it for Christ sake.” Will ducked as the shoes sailed over his head._

_It was the most Will had said the entire time they drove. And how he had missed the inflection of falling snow in his voice. The shoes fell with a thud and tumbled through a bit of overgrown weeds at the edge of the property. The younger man gaped at him, hands still covering his head, perplexed brows wriggling. He was wearing that particular expression—bewilderment and curiosity— often it seemed. Today._

_With another rich laugh, Hannibal spun on his heel and shouted, “Come in when you’re ready, Will.”_

_Ghosts of plastic covered his most precious belongings. Hannibal began to remove them, sinking beneath the crinkling wisp each sheet made, to rediscover his gleaming piano and modernist furniture scattered throughout. He rolled fingers against heavy aged keys, several notes reaching the air. He moved with a quickened spring in his step. He was filled with something. Giddy. Eager to share with Will something he had shared with Abigail. His home._

My life…

_Gauzy plastic fluttered through the air and fell away from a four post bed. The thought was unbidden, drowned deep, a long time ago in the blood of his kitchen. Or so he had thought. Pain resonated somewhere in the depths of rooms and doors. He shut and locked every single one, retreating back to the voice calling to him at his back. No matter where he went…Will was always with him. In one way or another._

I have always wanted you by my side, Will.

_“You should really go.”_

_“Nonsense.”_

_The older man shook his head and turned to find Will leaning in the doorway, taking in the room with a sweep of eyes, discovering exactly which room he was on the brink of entering and took a step back. For some reason the single reverse momentum of motion sent a tremor through his heart. He tried not to focus on the singular form of the sentence implying Hannibal would be leaving alone. Without Will. Once more. He would never survive the separation. Refused to survive him. Neither would Will. He would not leave him again. Not alive. They would both have to go together.  
_

_“We have plenty of time. Jack and his honored guests would never be so rude as to show up without an invitation. Especially given how difficult it will be to find this place. Even if they knew, they’d never come. At least not till I’m dead.” Hannibal offered easily then winked at bewilderment framed in soft drooping curls, motioning behind him. “The master bath is behind me. Would you like to shower first?”_

Or shower with me? _Images of glistening skin and a warm press of his mouth wafted across the back of his eyelids with an inhale of Will's scent._

_Hannibal forced a smile, trying to reel in a floodgate of emotion and stuff it back inside himself. The seams of who he was, the frail man inside his bones, was beginning to split at the seams. The younger man brought out the worst in him: delicate humanity. He wanted to run his hands through every curl and bring his mouth against the sullen frown that followed. He wanted to kiss every inch of him and whisper, 'beautiful, how beautiful you are to me, my love.'_

_Will looked down at tattered trousers smudged in dirt, boots swinging in one hand, and opened his mouth to say something—_

_The older man felt his heart drop, waiting as he had in the kitchen, when all he had felt were the scattering raindrops on Will’s cold skin, mouth open on the precipice of a reply to ‘we couldn’t leave without you,’ pitiful eyes wavering with blatant agony and longing. Hannibal had cut the reply out of him and left it to drown with his compassion. Neither had remained dead.  
_

_“Will?”_

_—then Will shook his head before shuffling down the hall._

_Hannibal heard the dull thud of his heart and wished it had remained where it belonged, caged and forgotten._

_If only Will realized he had been keeper of the keys, of the man hiding in skin, the entire time.  
_

_* * *_

_Will stood on the precipice of intimacy. A mere threshold away from something he could never seem to escape. No matter how far he ran. How well he hid. Or camouflaged himself in the trappings of a well adjusted family man. In all the years since, he dreamed and found himself in endless corridors leading through rooms and doors. No matter where he turned, the result was the same. The discovery predictable. But this room. The one where he stood just on the other line between hallway and room was real. He found what he always did. Hannibal. Just within, and out of, reach._

_His voice shook out hoarse. “You should go.”_

_“Nonsense,” A crisp tone replied._

_A gaze slid from plastic slipping from hands and fell over a rigid shoulder. The eyes flowing from the tips of his hair to muddy socked feet were the color of caramel, warmed by sun peeking through blinds. Will had last seen those eyes in the harsh ice cold lighting of prison, steeled and shadowed and cutting him open. Here they were gentle and startling and unmistakably filled with what he had not seen before--a fervor, longing. Had...anyone ever looked at him that way before? His empathy rushed his skin cold in bumps. He didn't just exist. He was the only thing, the only person, to exist. The only one Hannibal could see. For a man who had spent most of his life in hiding, being looked over and forgotten, it made his palms sweat and his ability to continue breathing strained. It was terrifying.  
_

_He tightened the grip on boots he was holding—unsure where to put them, or place himself, in this new light, new life Hannibal was allowing him to see. He realized where he was, who he was, lurking outside of a bedroom and took a step back and then another, shoulders bumping against the wall. It felt dangerous to stand so close to the edge where carpet met wood paneling, a temptation and pull, to let himself fall. Into his own darkness. Into the room. Into Hannibal’s bed._

Just shut up… _Will whispered fiercely to the otherness waking inside him._ We don’t want this.

Don’t we?

_“We have plenty of time. Jack and his honored guests would never be so rude as to show without an invitation. Especially given how difficult it will be to find this place. Even if they knew, they’d never come. At least not till I’m dead.” Hannibal noted cheerily with a wink._

_Will felt his mouth fall open. Blinded by the careless flirtation of such a simple gesture. It was playful. This was not the way he and Hannibal played._

_You play, you pay._

_Their games involved guns, knives, and someone bleeding out on stoned tile outside art galleries or lying against provincial French furniture. His stomach twisted, bolts and screws winding a feeling, a sinking, desperate feeling deep inside him. Or a kitchen. His grip faltered on the boots, palms sweating, some part of him wanting to let go of them, of everything, and push Hannibal against the bed he was tidying._

_“The master bath is behind me.” Soft gaze dragged over his cheeks, his mouth, in a hushed heat. “Would you like to shower first?”_

_He opened his mouth to speak, letting the implication of the question wash over him, sending sunlight and then frigid rainwater through him. There was no way to avoid what he had seen. Now knew to be true. How Hannibal looked at him, dragged the skin from his bones and whispered against the frail organ beating faster inside his chest, had always been the same. Love._

_Fuck. Who in their right goddamn mind, who...who the fuck would ever love him?_

Bedelia said you’re in love with me, Hannibal. Are you… _His heart thudded loudly in his chest._ ...in love with me?

_Will waited for a response. Steeling every single part of himself. His defenses had always been weak, rotting beams of perception of self and need. He started to tremble, mouth going dry. He knew what would happen if the older man said ‘yes.’ The last part of him, of who he thought he was, who he wanted to be but knew he wasn’t—if he had ever been ‘good’ at all—would fall and he would die in Hannibal’s arms, then wake to find he was still in them, and then he would be…someone else._

I want to be someone else. With you.

_Hannibal quirked his chin to the side, eyes squinting to unravel the flash of emotion trembling across his mouth and choking down a sliding throat. “Will?”_

_It took a full minute for him to realize he had not spoken out loud._

_“Oh god…” Will barely breathed the words, shook his head and fled the thing, the feeling, the need, pulling him closer and closer to a beckoning edge._

_Safe for awhile longer, at least, as safe as he had ever been with darkness inside his own head._

_* * *_

_A shredded uniform lay in a pile beside a laundry hamper. Hannibal considered burning the thing, but was drawn to the shower by a waft of steam, where he still stood forty minutes later. Braced against a marbled wall luxuriating. It was scalding. Years and tension melting as he moved beneath the spray. Skin turned pink as it rushed over his neck, down his back, and snaked the strength of his legs. Foam swirled around his feet in the scent of patchouli and olive oil.  
_

_His thoughts turned to the abrupt crash toppling him to freedom. Even if it was fleeting. Freedom was to be cherished. He thought of how quietly Will had slid into the passenger seat, not batting a single lash as leather creaked and blood soaked his shirt from where a living man had once been. How quiet it had been. Busted windows rushing air against his face as he had felt the tremble of a jumping accelerator. Through it all he could still smell Will. His skin. His blood. Even his hideous aftershave which Hannibal now associated with gentle and infuriating emotion. The younger man had stared out the window in complete silence. Hannibal in turn had nearly driven them straight in a ditch staring at him. How handsome the boy had become over time. Skin chaffed rose by winter. Mouth a sullen, deep line. Eyes exquisitely dark and piercing. The careless ease of how Will moved, ever so slightly stretching out long legs._

_Hannibal ran the flat of his tongue against molars. It was still sore from where he had been biting as he drove. To focus an ache, a blistering need, to reach out and touch Will. To keep touching him. Over his clothes. Then under them. He let out a harsh breath, sliding a hand down his stomach and curled a palm against a hard cock. There was no one watching here. No chance of interruption. It wouldn't take much. Not after so long. He nipped at the inside of his cheek and stroked up, once, with enough pressure to take the edge off._

_The older man groaned and let go. He stretched, tipping his face up in the water and sighed. He would wait. There was enough time yet. Will might still..._

Do not continue longing for all you cannot hope to hold.

_He felt revived by the hot water and somehow even more tense with anticipation he could not place. It was more than need. There was something else. Something still gnawed at his insides and quite literally knocked on the bathroom door._

_“Hann—Doctor Lecter?” Floorboards creaked awkwardly._

_He was half turned, heart ticking a bit faster, one hand on the handle of the glass shower prepared to step out._

_“Are you…?”_

_His heart clenched._

_“Fuck, Christ, get it together.” Muttering rose to a loud strain of mental effort. “Are you okay? I just…hell…" Something thumped against a door. "It’s been awhile. And if you slipped and are unconscious I would feel… What? Bad. I guess.”_

_Hannibal stepped quietly out of the shower, towel nearly within his grasp, puddle of water spreading across the pristine white mosaic tile and found paralysis upon him again. He almost did faint and not because some part of him was exceptionally curious to find out what would happen if Will discovered him nude and vulnerable. His spiked body temperature and adrenaline peaked and then plummeted. He gripped the towel rack.  
_

_The feeling passed in a dizzying rush before he could call out._

_“Okay, I’m, I’m coming in—“_

_The older man snapped a towel free and wound it expertly around his hips, yanking open the door just as it was pushed to assure there was no need. No matter how gallant or charming it was for Will to be concerned._

_Startling blue eyes widened. Will stumbled and collided straight into his chest, sending them both skating backwards across water, sharp porcelain sink smashing his lower spine once and then again as a body fell into his arms. He flung arms around a waist and under shoulders holding tight to avoid a nasty spill on the floor. He had no longer processed the sequence of events, registered Will against him--a towel and nothing else against jeans-- when it all vanished._

_With a strangled noise, Will pummeled palms on his chest, slid back across water and glowered at him through a fringe of curls on the other side of the door, toes curled inside wet socks. “Oh good." He hissed. "You aren’t dead.”_

_Piercing blue dilated for a moment, falling from a stunned open mouth to a thicket of grey hair on a chest, to a precarious tangle of terrycloth around thick thighs. Hannibal forced himself to swallow, keeping very still, only remembering how to breathe as soon as Will retreated, muttering curses down the hall. He found himself laughing again. It was absurd. He was free. Will was here with him. All these years and he needed to only stop answering when Will called to send him into a panic and straight to his arms._

_* * *_

_Back and forth. Back and forth. Will continued to pace the entire length of the hallway in front of the room he had abandoned for a glass of whiskey. And then a glass of wine. And then another. A glass he still held clenched in his right fist to keep it from shaking. All he could hear was the sound of water, real and imagined, a deafening roar plunging to the depths of jagged rocks below. He shook a sting of anxiety racing down his arm from his left hand. He was drunk. At the very least tipsy. Not in any real conscious state to be considering whether or not to open the door to a room, Hannibal’s bedroom, and soon after go through another leading to a bathroom. Where the man himself was showering. Naked. Vulnerable. Wrapped up in a veil of steam. Or nothing at all.  
_

_Fuck. Now his goddamn empathy was materializing, in crisp and sharp detail with information gathered from well tailored suits, what his former fucking psychiatrist looked like naked. Which had absolutely nothing (almost not entirely) with what he was doing pacing like a caged animal in front of the bedroom door to begin with. He had not checked or had the foresight to ask whether or not Hannibal had sustained any head injuries in the crash flipping the police van several times. There was a decent chance if he had, the older man could have fainted in the shower. Or was convulsing. In an unconscious state and needed help. His help.  
_

Or he is perfectly fucking fine... _His brain stammered on all the uses of the word ‘fine’ when it came to Hannibal Lecter._ Goddammit, Graham.

_He was not here to think about Hannibal, clothed or unclothed, fine or…no, he was fine. Beautiful, if men could be called beautiful. Oh my god, why was this happening? There was no getting around it. He just needed to know he wasn’t dead. Yet. He wasn't going to get away from Will that easily. He had a goddamn reckoning to meet.  
_

_His wine glass tapped resolutely on an oblong table in the hall. He opened the bedroom door with more force than intended. It banged on the interior wall._

Great. To be fair, I was distracted. And now I’m distracted by something I shouldn’t even be—focus, just focus.

_“Fuck, Christ, get it together,” He muttered. “Hann—"_

_No. Not Hannibal. That was too...intimate._

_"Doctor Lecter?”_

_Will planted both feet a meter apart, jammed hands in his pockets and called, “Are you okay? I just…hell…"_

_His head thumped against the door. He could just turn around and leave. What if Hannibal was dressing? What if he wasn't? What if he was just... ? Or even...? His mouth went dry, anxious fingers ticking a damp palm. Why did this have to be so difficult?  
_

_"It’s been awhile. And if you slipped and are unconscious I would feel…” He groaned and lifted his chin to stare at the ceiling. “What? Bad. I guess.”_

_Could one feel bad about letting the man come to harm only to push him into harm's direct path later on?_

_Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a sound.  
_

_He began to tap his thumb on a thigh, anxiety growing. He would count to one hundred. If he counted to one hundred and Hannibal didn’t answer then—_

_“Okay, I’m, I’m coming in—“_

_He twisted the door handle, shoulder following in a loud thud of anticipation to it being locked, to break it down and rescue Hannibal and—_

Oh god.

_There was suddenly no door. Then air. Then Hannibal was standing there, expression startled. His feet slid through water, losing his balance. Then his palms collided with a tensed dripping abdomen and heat and muscle. His hands fell to catch himself, snagging on peaked hipbones then terry cloth. Their legs tangled. One or both of them cursed. His cheek flattened against a chest covered in a thicket of graying hair. His entire body melded with a strong frame, large damp palms pressing his back, his shoulders, to catch him. A low groan breathed across his forehead._

Fucking hell.

_Will registered the arms around him, holding steady, chest to chest, burning hot against his cool skin, then who was holding him—_

Is Hannibal in a fucking towel?! Well, of course he is, idiot!

_—and shoved away. He frantically slid across the bathroom, nearly planting face first, and caught the door frame and whirled around._

_“Oh good…”_

_Hannibal blinked at him, both brows lifted high, slicking soaking wet hair back. Jesus, he looked... The younger man swallowed hard. There was a slight quirk of his mouth, shock turning to a suppressed smile. The smile faltered, sliding with the path Will’s eyes were taking, following every bead of water gliding from broad shoulders, down a bare chest, and lingering a second too long at a towel draping over a shapely outline between thighs._

_“You’re not dead.”_

_The younger man shook his head hard and barreled down the hall for a second time. He snapped up his wine glass and stormed the kitchen. He traded glass for a bottle. He felt the damp palm prints on his clothes burning through his skin, settling somewhere to reside in the shadow his soul, and hollow him from the inside out. The shaking returned in his hands. Then his entire body started to tremble. He really needed a fucking drink._

_* * *_

_After dressing, Hannibal found Will deep in a bottle of his finest vintage Batard Montrachet, leaning heavily on the counter for support and blowing at a curl insistent on falling in his eyes. He wondered if the younger man was tipsy or if he was tiptoeing a fine line of hoping, wishing, praying, to be drunk. He could keep pouring. A heated gaze dragged over the strong lines of his spine to where a shirt was hitching above jeans to expose prominent hipbones. He had seen most of Will naked over the course of their…friendship tasted bitter…except for the parts he averted his gaze from out of respect. He gnawed on a bottom lip. He would look exquisite placed on his counter, laid out on his dining room table, with Hannibal firmly situated with a mouth between his thighs. He could have him. He swallowed and moved closer. I f he kept pouring. He could have him pliant and gentle, kissing and tasting every part of him within hours. The older man took another step. Will was touch starved. For him. For the way only he could touch him without pretense. Not hours. Minutes.  
_

_A heavy sigh was followed by a petulant cry as Hannibal pried the wine bottle away and set it next to the stove, on the far side of a wooden chopping board. It was a danger to them both.  
_

_“I was…drinkin…that,” Slight slurring noted with annoyance._

_“I gathered as much…” The older man responded, turning to the gravity coffee maker and began to prepare a cup. He looked at Will, cheeks pink, pouting. He had better make several cups. “Now you are going to behave and drink this. Wine is for dinner guests only.”_

_“And am I…” Will curled hands around a curvy black mug, eyes nearly crossing as he glared up at unruly hair. “…dinner? Or a guest, Doctor?”_

_The older man nearly tripped on a rug. He pushed out a silent growl between clenched teeth. Need coiled in his belly. The way Will seemed to make him feel, with piercing intensity, every time he spoke, consciously or not, 'doctor.' No one had ever made it sound as sinful, powerful, desirable, as Will did. His arousal spiked. He closed his eyes._

Both. You have always been both.

_Hannibal gripped the counter, focusing deeply and sharply on his breathing to keep a sudden stab of hunger from shaking him to pieces. He poured a half glass of wine and knocked it back fiercely. His lips lingered on the imprint of Will's left on the glass. He pushed the bottle farther away, hands trembling. He knew better than to test what little tolerance for alcohol remained after such a dry spell. He didn't trust himself to be this close to Will, in the same room, not a foot of space between them, and drink. He would end up begging. He was not too proud to plea for the embodiment of all he desired. He would get on his knees for the boy without hesitation. It wouldn't be the same. He wanted Will to see him, choose him._

I would love to devour you in or out of my bed. Seeing as how I have already tried the former, I would prefer my tongue on or inside you as the entree part of our feast. We could discuss at great length, once you are writhing and moaning, how you might like the main course to proceed. Perhaps we ought to skip straight to the interruption of our meal and let Dolarhyde put me out of my misery, eh? God knows I have been incapable of doing just that. 

_Hannibal groaned inwardly. Where had his prideful and glorious self control gone? He had it once. Exercised it with ease and regularity. Before Will. He grit his teeth. Three years of exercising that particular control on a daily basis-especially with the returned scent of Will permeating his confined space where he could not escape it-had been trying and exhausting. And that damn palm print glaring at him on the glass, rush of rage and desperate longing coursing through his veins, had been viscous torment. The scent. The sight. There was no retreat from him. His entire world was yet another cage Will had built to keep him in and watch him pace and dash himself against the bars to get at what he could not, would not, ever have._

Have you any idea the kind of blind restraint one most rule over the body, not only not to deny pleasure but to appear entirely unmoved, by your presence alone?

_He turned to find the younger man sipping his coffee, legs swinging, his pert ass firmly planted on his kitchen counter. Right where he had wanted him. Still wanted him. God he wanted Will in a burn of trapped breath and fraying nerves. He took a step closer, fists swinging. And for fuck sake if he kept staring he was going to have a stiff cock and no dinner jacket to hide it behind. If he took one more step, he would take Will, jeans around his ankles against the counter without another thought. There would be no tenderness. No forethought. He deserved the soft affection of his heart and not his shadowed self howling to claim._

_“Jūs bandote mane nužudyti...” Lithuanian scoured rusty from a ruddy frown._

_Brows rippled. “Huh?”_

_“Nothing,” The older man muttered, shaking his head and jerking open the refrigerator to hide within it._

_He should just crawl into the basement freezer and force himself to remain until he cooled off. Or walk back to his bedroom, lock the damn door (or not) and rid himself of lust with a quick jerk of his fist. His entire house, his kitchen, his lungs, held a scent of sweat and musk. He found it very difficult to think when he was very nearly being choked by Will, permeating every single part of him, like the boy had his life and ruined everything he had built._

You have ruined me.

_“What are you doing, Hannibal?”_

_The refrigerator door nearly clipped the side of his face as it was firmly pushed shut._

_Will blinked, materialized by his side. “You should go. They’re going to find this place. It’s not really the time for you to daydream. Or cook.”_

_“Will…” Hannibal took a step forward, breath hitching at the way Will walked backwards in tandem, hand trailing on the counter for balance. “How can I put this in words you understand? It would do us both some good if you would ‘quiet the fuck down.’”_

_The younger man bumped a corner and slid free as a shadow loomed, mouth twitching. “Actually, the saying is ‘calm the fuck down.’” Bright blue looked over his shoulder, smile spreading. “Look at you learning all sorts of new hip phrases in—“ Eyes dropped. “S-sorry.”_

_He took in the drooped posture, eyes lowered. So the shy, soft spoken boy still lingered within him after all. He could have kissed the conflicting emotions radiating in wavering eyes away. Will had not sent him there. Hannibal had sent himself. For Will._

_“You can say it, Will. Prison." Hannibal leaned forward, head quirked with a lopsided smile. "Where I studied the texts of slang dictionaries. Now… if you don’t mind, I would like to prepare a meal. Would you fetch the skillet from the cupboard there? Third shelf, bottom right.”_

_Dusk had begun to fall in shades of grey and golden twilight brushing twigs, falling over ground, and plummeting to the rock infested ocean below. Hannibal was stranded somewhere between a sense of impending anxiety and reveling in the time he had inherently felt most alive. The older man felt strangely grounded in spite of the knowledge an invited guest was on his way, intent on killing him. He was calm. Soothed by the sizzling scent in his kitchen, the muscle memory of motion and skill, moving in a dream like quality all the while underneath a bright blue gaze._

_Will leaned against the counter, right next to him, cheek balanced on a fist with a sullen shadow of one lost in thought._

Are you picturing my demise in all its glory? Is it all you hoped?

_The older man tossed fresh garlic from his freezer and watched flame consume it, throwing handfuls of rosemary and thyme in after it. He tried to focus on the act of creation. It was, after all, supposed to be far more paramount than beauty. He ought to focus. Not make a sketch study of how the lamplight overhead cast a silver glow on crooked nose, lighting the corners of a smooth brow, ringing stubble and touching the very tip of a perfectly v-eed upper lip. Would he taste rich and aromatic like coffee? Or sweet and effervescent like the wine before it? He was so very lovely. Every bit of him perfect.  
_

_A hand settled on his lower back, arm brushing across him as Will reached for a freshly poured glass of wine. Hannibal dropped the frying pan. It clattered loudly on iron grates, flame spitting and hissing to catch spilled oil, to consume all he had created. There was a shout as a hand flew to twist knobs and turn the oven off. Palms slid down his forearms, encircled his wrists, pulling until his knuckles rested against dirt on a soft clothed chest. Room spinning paralysis turned the world inside out. Hannibal nearly fell to his knees. He could feel Will’s heart. This is what the younger man's concern for him felt like. So soft. So gentle. It was a fluttering bird, erratic, wild and seeking escape from the cage of bone. He wished to press soothing lips to it and cherish every song it created.  
_

_“Hannibal!” A frantic voice breathed hot against his hands being turned over and over by rough calluses as they were inspected for damage. “Hannibal, are you hurt? Did you get burned? Cut?”_

_Something was burning. It was not him. He was fairly certain._

_Hannibal tried to look anywhere but Will. Look near him or past him or through him. Looking at Will would destroy him. But his hands were inside Will’s, cradled gently. He tried to pull, to walk away, to free himself. He stood still. They were…close. He gauged the space of their bodies and felt the tempo of his breath quicken. Their shoes brushed, knees clumsily bumping one another. How many years had it been since he stood this close to anyone, nearly touching? Then Will touched the side of his face, a faint spark of warmth on his cheek. He felt the entirety of everything he was unravel. The last person to touch him, the last one he had held, dressed carefully to become the final one he ever longed to consume… had been Will._

My William… 

_“Hey!” The younger man had both hands on him now, gripped by the shoulders, shaking him, eyes round and flooding distress and panic. “Talk to me. I need to know if you’re okay? Are you okay?”_

_No. He would never be okay ever again. His gaze fell from the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen to the second wonderment of existence. An exquisitely cruel mouth. It had wounded him, betrayed and sent him away. But it had freed him and given him strength._

How do you taste, Will? How would you feel willingly resting in my arms? How would you…

_Will froze as if a knife was ripping him open, stammering mid sentence, weak noise escaping. "H-h-hann...ibal?"_

_Hannibal pushed at curls, dragging fingertips from the scar hiding beneath, then over cheeks. He was hot to the touch without the rain, burning far brighter than the fever had ever made him. He was shaking. He breathed in traces of fear and something sharper he could not yet place. He drew a thumb underneath a jaw, relishing the way eyelids fluttered. The older man balanced a chin between forefinger and thumb, weak noise sounding, either from him or Will or both, sensation of tears skirting his vision. He put a hand on a cheek and saw tears answering his own._

_Was there a chance? Even the smallest...that Will, his Will, could feel...anything for him?_

_For the briefest moment he felt the younger man stop breathing, wild eyes closing to hide what he searched for, and for the first time, just a second, pressed into his touch. His eyes slipped shut, bending slightly to draw Will closer and kiss him. He wanted nothing else._

_If this was goodbye, he wanted to know the pressure of his lips once, before he died.  
_

_A firm hand planted in the center of his chest, feeling where his own heart was beating wildly. “N-n-no.”_

_Hannibal felt something break inside of him, heard shattering glass, and nodded, eyes still firmly shut. He didn’t want to see what Will looked like rejecting him for a third time. He knew exactly what he was capable of if he did. He couldn't kill something of irrevocable and destructive beauty. It would just live on. Without him. Inside himself.  
_

_With a push, Will retreated from his grasp, from the kitchen, and made his way down the hall, calling in a shaky voice, “I’m going to take a shower.”_

_The older man slumped on the counter, mouth pressed grey and white, ache spreading his ribs open until every bit of who he was spilled out across the floor._

_He would let Dolarhyde take him from this life. It was the only way. To give either of them peace.  
_

_* * *_

_Will felt Hannibal’s hands sliding around him as if he was a thread of the sensation, the whisper of skin to skin, existing somewhere outside himself. He looked up in brimming eyes of blood and hunger, paralyzed by the way they took in every part of him, both inside and out. Hannibal looked stricken, mortally wounded, and reaching for Will to save his life or end it. He felt the pull of a fall towards Hannibal once more.  
_

_He heard his ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart in time to the tempo of a chopping knife that had stopped minutes before. It was clear. Real. A ghost of touch moved across the scar on his forehead. Maroon eyes glistened remorse. Was Hannibal about to cry? Will felt tears prick his eyes. The older man touched the side of his face, dragging fingers down both sides of his cheeks. He was trembling, his hands, his legs, his arms, his heart. A palm lay gently on his cheek. His eyes began to sting then well. He closed them and for a second pressed close. His knees buckled, remembering the pressure of Hannibal all around him, holding him close, keeping him safe. As he had done, year after year. He clutched tighter, spike of fear screaming he would fall apart without it. Without Hannibal. He knew…he knew…_

I love him…

_The younger man opened his eyes to find Hannibal closing his against a rush of tears. Something inside him snapped. He heard the breaking of his bones, structure collapsing at their feet. His grip tightened on wrists, whine lodged in the back of his throat. If he let go he would sink to his knees. He would fall. He couldn’t fall. He couldn’t—_

_“N-n-no,” Will whispered fiercely._

_He flattened his palm against a chest, felt the frail and untamed thing within desperate to break free beneath, and pushed. The beautiful, steadying pressure of safety, of belonging, melted away. Will gasped for breath, stumbling backwards and caught himself on an edge of a counter. Hannibal stood absolutely still, face angled towards the heavens above, expression blank and nodded, mouth pressed thin and white like a crescent moon. Harsh lighting above cast his body in violent angles of dark and light, violence twitching fingers. He looked vacant, all of the sunlight from before in those few hours of gentle calm, lost to him now. Lost to Will._

_'Soon all of this will be lost to the sea...'_

_The younger man moved swiftly down the hall, curving an arm around the scar throbbing on his stomach, reeling from grief. “I’m going to take a shower.”_

_He all but slammed the bedroom door shut behind him. He shut the other with equal force and slumped against it. He felt like he was dying. Bleeding out. The pain. God, he was in so much pain. He slid to the floor, eyes closed, and wrapped both arms around his knees. He didn’t bother to lock either of the doors. What good had they done him in the past? Physical ones or the ones in his mind. Or Hannibal’s for that matter. They were constant trespassers, no longer violating one another’s boundaries, but traveling through them freely._

_What was the point? What was the fucking point? He would always end up here. With Hannibal. Right where he belonged._

_When the tears reached his eyes, Will tore off his clothes and stepped in the glass shower, to let water wash away their weakening sensation. He was angry at first. Trying to scald away imprints of fingertips on his cheeks, his mouth, his torso. He ached. Wanted. He shouldn’t want this. Every time he closed his eyes he saw hunger and blood gazing back, imagined the dry rasp of Hannibal’s mouth on his, then the heady demand of a slick tongue pushing in, dragging out weak desperate sounds. Sounds he was making now, muffled against a forearm jammed over his mouth. He twisted his wrist, cock gripped tight in tensed fingers, jerking furiously. Everything Hannibal made him feel was wrong. Or was he…just wrong?  
_

Is it wrong?

_Shame flushed his cheeks. It wasn’t right. He felt the smooth texture of palms pressing him hard against a strong torso. Flesh pink and glistening and hot. Real, it had been real, Hannibal was real. Not a delusion. Not a nightmare. Flesh and blood. Saw the thin towel wrapped tight around muscular thighs, how it draped full and flush against the outlines of a cock. He had thought about ripping the towel away, leaving raw red marks down a back, the two of them struggling against one another, brute strength and teeth. Their kind of a hunt. How the older man might overpower him, flipped on his belly, trousers around his ankles, one hand gripping an edge of the sink and the other palm flattened on the steamy mirror, watching as Hannibal took him hard and fast. Without mercy. Without words. Simply gasps of pleading breath.  
_

_Will’s moans turned to soft sobs, tempo slowing as his thoughts turned to a different kind of need, a different version of them. How human, how open, Hannibal looked with afternoon streams of sunlight touching a gilded smile. Unguarded as their eyes met in the hours leading up to contact. The hands that had touched him then were infinitely tender, a hint unsteady with want and fear, moving across him as if they knew Will. Had always known him. Yet prayed, vowed, pleaded to know more. As if he had always belonged to Hannibal._

_He panted in the curve of his arm, leaking over his palm, picturing the older man carrying him to the bedroom and laying him there ever so gently as if he might shatter. Or disappear and leave him crushed, alone, trapped. Every act one of reverence. From removing layer and layer of his clothes, to the sweep of his eyes, and then the path his mouth might take intent to kiss every part of him. Make him shake apart, with his hand, with his mouth, with just the sound of his voice, again and again. Only when Will was nearly unconscious from exhaustion, holding tight, crying out his name would Hannibal slide deep inside, and make Will his, slow and steady._

_With the older man’s name on his lips and tears in his eyes, Will came with the dizzying sensation of falling. He no longer felt tremors of righteous violence and need for judgement or reckoning. Just calm. Then he was overwhelmed by scent of skin, something sweet and sharp, the scent that had clung to Hannibal with every graceful movement throughout the kitchen, standing just beside him. Out of reach. Until Hannibal had reached for him. He dragged the bar of soap over his shoulders, down his chest, and let it coast very slowly against the puckered smile on his stomach. He braced against the wall, trembling, lost in the mist of steam and the very real feeling of fading into everything he was, all Hannibal was, and what they might be together._

_Maybe he could never accept who he was, who he really was, who Will Graham had always been, long before and after Hannibal. But maybe…maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Maybe he didn’t need to. He let go.  
_

_Water ran over a wavering smile, glimmering seams opening to turn to a small laugh._

_There was nothing more dangerous than the intimacy of being understood. Mind and soul exposed, gazed upon. To be fully seen and accepted though? Someone did accept him for who he was, without condition or hesitation. And that man—murderer, betrayer, and confidant of both dishonesty and truth— loved him.  
_

And maybe that’s just fine…

_* * *_

_Bottle in hand, Hannibal stroked the corkscrew thoughtfully, sensing a presence stir within the room at his side. He winced. Patchouli and olive oil. And Will. He could kill him with it easily. Not with ease.  
_

This is how you would smell if you let me hold you, Will, your scent and mine languidly pressed against one another as I might stretch you out beneath me, to worship.

_The cork loosened with a pop and Hannibal looked up, trying to quiet the beat of his heart. Will waited, hands slung loosely in cashmere trouser pockets, chest tight in a starched white cotton button up. He was wearing the clothes the older man had laid out for him. His hair was still damp. Single curl falling over his brow. He was wearing the most disarming part of the ensemble. A faint smile of amusement and the graceful movement of his form._

_The older man set down the corkscrew, gaze and voice softening, “My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will…”_

_A smile grew wide, light of a thousand stars meeting pale blue eyes, as their fingers touched against a glass of wine, and Hannibal knew in that moment he would die giving his life for what he loved most in this world._

_Will._


	19. Chapter 19

“Can you tell me about these?” A silken tone inquired, nails tapping across a pile of polaroids.

Blue eyes rolled dramatically.

“Can I?” Will balanced a heavy head in his palms, sarcasm dripping from a frown. “Or will I?”

Alana sat rigidly across from a stranger in an interrogation. A man she was so certain she knew. Years ago, when he had been soft spoken, skittish, and doe eyed. She had seen a glimpse of that man as he had described another she had known. Thought she had known. Neither of them sounded like the ones from her past. Not in person. Or the way they described one another. They sounded more like Will had become Hannibal, and Hannibal had become Will. It was all a jumble. A blur. Missing bits of information intoned by how soft or loud their voices became. She wasn’t sure what to believe. What was real. Or if it was all an act. But the man glowering at her from the other side of the table with hard blue eyes and a scowl spoke with such…tender, honest _affection_. It wasn’t that Will believed every word he said. He emoted with conviction, micro-expressions ranging from a smile of adoration and shining eyes to a twist of contempt in defense of their relationship.

_What the fuck happened to you, Will? Hannibal’s good. He can’t be that good._

A single cup of coffee had turned to undrinkable sludge inside a Styrofoam cup. She had left twice during the interview. Once at midnight, scurrying through halls to avoid scathing questions and suggested strategy from Jack nipping at her heels. Several fitful hours of sleep on an office couch left her more irritated than before. And sore. Every time she tried to eat, she felt sick. As the hours dragged by she felt more and more ill.

The second time she left had been at six in the morning. She had not been able to escape Jack. He demanded results based on the sole argument of ‘ _you know him better than all of us_.’ The mere sound of his voice grated on her. Given his haggard appearance and wrinkled suit, she imagined he wasn’t getting anywhere with Hannibal either. Instead of escaping on the nearest helicopter, she went back to the hotel for a hot shower and another change of clothes. Then she called Margot. Heard the lilt of concern in her sweet voice and cried.

She glanced at her reflection, picking lint from a soft grey jersey blouse twisted around painted nails now chipped from nervous picking. Worn dried lipstick was slightly smudged at a corner of her mouth by the imprint of a palm. Her hair was pulled high and loose on the top of her head, messy and falling over glossy eyes. Her patience for procuring a confession to avoid a trial and dealing with them—any of them—was waning. The F.B.I. wanted to avoid scrutiny. They had questions. Questions she and Jack could not answer with any real honesty. She could care less about any of it as the hours ticked by.

“Seriously.” Swathes of black hung under bloodshot eyes behind glasses. “Is this really necessary? We’ve been at this for hours, Alana.”

_Almost thirteen to be exact._

Alana had nothing to show for it. Nothing at all except a chipping gel manicure and sleep deprivation. She sighed. An expensive manicure at that. It would have to be redone. She twirled a thin gold band on her ring finger. Margot preferred them filed and painted. She wanted to keep her happy.

“We would have finished much sooner if you would stop evading my questions,” A thin lipped tone replied.

“I’m not evading. Or avoiding,” Will snapped. He reached across the table, snatched the cup away, and downed her cold coffee with a grimace. “I just don’t feel like _wasting_ what limited oxygen there is on the planet answering.” He crumpled the Styrofoam cup and pitched it behind him, hands scouring through hair before gripping the back of his neck. “You’ve drawn your own conclusions already. What would be the point?”

She gripped her thigh and inhaled sharply. She blinked through a whiplash of frustration. Her ability to maintain an outward appearance of calm and understanding was becoming brittle. If she wasn’t careful it would crack. She knew yelling and coercion was going to yield even less results. Jack had proven that. It was her job to remain the voice of reason. To call Will out of his mind and back to a place of mutual trust. Where he felt understood. She would handle him as she always had, with kid gloves and an attempt to know him from a distance.

_Though I’m beginning to wonder if you are the same man…_

They had tried brute force. Threats. Negotiation. Will had turned it all away. Even food. Though he hadn’t asked Alana to leave. She would offer him the appearance of someone who would simply listen. If she could draw him out of his shell…

_Maybe there’s still a chance. If Hannibal really did brainwash him, I can’t just give up. What kind of person would that make me? He used to be my friend._

“Why don’t you tell me about them?” Alana asked softly, sifting through polaroids. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say this is less of a man coerced than one drowned under the waves of well placed influence.”

Snapshots of memory. There were many to choose from. The first of many it seemed from their lives after the fall. Life after death. If it could be called a life. She had hardly ever seen Will smile when she knew him. If he had it was brief, a ripple of false assurance and blatant discomfort. He was more of a sullen, docile boy looking to please than anything else. Praying for acceptance from anything and anyone. For a place to belong. Blanketed in melancholy of slumped posture and resignation shining in lowered eyes.

This version of him, both in the photographs and sitting before her, were different. His posture was taut, shoulders back, chin tipped at a defiant angle. He radiated a quiet sense of power. In the images laid out, Will was smiling in some way or another in nearly every single one. Not as he had before. Genuinely smiling, lines crinkled around his mouth, eyes bright. She imagined his laughter. It was muffled. She had never heard it.

“ _For fuck sake_.” Will closed his eyes, and held his breath for a full minute, cheek flinching. The younger man looked passed her at the tinted mirror beyond. “He sent you here to get a confession as a bargaining chip. Oh Jack. You never could do your own goddamn dirty work. Do us all a favor and give up already. Some of us would like to sleep. And speak to our lawyers who I imagine you’ve conveniently lost somewhere.”

She picked two of the most faded photos from the bunch. The first was an image of Will and Hannibal holding close, slow dancing, dusk falling over a city in the background. They looked at one another as if the world beyond didn’t exist. Its crinkled corners held significance as if it was at one time tucked in a wallet, drawn out to gaze upon from time to time. Perhaps shown with pride to strangers. She turned the photograph and squinted at looping cursive.

_Our honeymoon._

The second seemed far more aged. The first. Bleached white by the sun. This was the second time she had seen the two men entwined. She preferred this image to the one she had watched in real time on the video recording of the interrogation room. Static pixels of a photo did not make her insides twist or her heart thud wildly in her chest with sick anticipation of violence. The kind she knew Hannibal was capable of doling out upon those who offended him.

In the photo, Will was kissing Hannibal opened mouthed, curled against one another on a bed with a glimpse of ocean reflected in the windows. She wondered where they were. A hotel. A ship, perhaps? Will had sailed across an entire ocean to find Hannibal once on a sailboat he had assembled from scratch. It would stand to reason they would find each other once more on one. Together. She grimaced. Was Will drawn in by the prospect of violence he saw behind his eyelids? Or being held closely by the one thing, the one torment, he had shared his life with all along?

There had to be an explanation. Something to explain what she was seeing. How had they gotten from where they were when she had seen them last, circling one another with spit dripping teeth, to this haze of apparent affection?

Alana returned to the photograph. The older man’s brow was furrowed beneath a messy fringe, both hands wound tight in spilling dark curls, fragile adoration hinting red in carved cheekbones. Hannibal seemed caught between agony and bliss, lost, struck down by a mere press of lips.

_Endless shards of shattering glass…_

The image of the two men blurred. Who was she seeing? This man, almost fragile and sighing, was not who she had known. Even when she thought she had known him behind closed doors. His manipulation of touch had been kind. Remote. Not tender. He had never kissed or held her. Not like this. Thoughtful, forgiving, completely open. In this moment, Hannibal was the predator resting docile and willingly in the arms of the man who had almost killed him. Resigned to whatever Will had planned.

It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. When they started hunting—she knew better than to call it by any other name. Jack put a price on their heads and she foot the bill—for the two of them, Alana knew she would find Will with Hannibal again. Even if she prayed she wouldn’t. She never expected to find them…together. At least not alive. What had Hannibal done to Will? What had she done by asking Hannibal to save him that fatal night?

_Am I responsible for this?_

She pushed the photograph with the ocean in the background across the table and formed the words slowly. “Jack tells me… you believe you and Hannibal are…in a relationship.”

“Are you and Margot…” Blue eyes narrowed as Will sat forward, arms and hands coiling around his torso. “… _perceived_ to be in a relationship? Or are you just in one?”

Alana sat back instinctively. She had seen Will this way at crime scenes, drawn taut and ready to strike as the killer he was profiling. She felt the twitch of his hands around the grip of a gun. She had the unmistakable sensation it was being pointed at her head. This wasn’t a crime scene. There were no killers to imagine. Just them.

_Is this who you really are, Will?_

“It is very easy to get lost with Hannibal at the helm, steering both thought and emotion.” She observed with clinical detachment, mind leafing through thick textbooks and skimming paragraphs. “It is not uncommon for someone in your situation to lose their way and form an attachment to their captor.”

“Captor bonding?” Laughter echoed loudly. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

“I’m trying to understand how you got here.”

“ _You_ got me here, Alana.”

“You got yourself here, Will. Same as last time.”

“Excuse me?” The younger man bolted up, curls spilling over glittering eyes, chains straining to reach her. “Say it again!”

The former psychiatrist edged back in her chair, glancing fearfully at the glass behind her.

“The first time, you, Jack, and apparent irrefutable evidence got me here despite my protests. No one believed me! This time? You. You did this to me! Don’t pretend you’re innocent in this. Any of this!” Bellowing rose to grating screams. “You dragged me from my fucking life against my will. You took me prisoner. And then you took my husband! For what! So you could soothe your own conscience? To make sure we suffered every brutal—“

“ _Sit down_.” Alana’s voice shook out a cold command, numb fingers curling then pointed at the chair. “Or I will have them take you back to your cell. You won’t see Hannibal at all. Or your lawyer.”

Ashy skin washed white. Two pin pricks of blue widened. They no longer glittered. They held only fear. Sucking in a steadying breath, Will slumped in the chair, subdued by the mere threat. He stared at a corner of the table. His eyes watered.

_From savage lion to lamb in a second. What is Hannibal to you?_

“Tell me what he did to you.”

“I think you’re confusing me with Bedelia...” Raw laughter rang out as Will rubbed a hand over a rippling mouth, looking at her unsteady grip and then directly in to her eyes. “I didn’t get lost inside the hot darkness of Hannibal. Though I find those parts of him deeply satisfying. I simply saw my own reflection. I didn’t lose anything. I found myself.”

She felt her unease grow, gripping the back of the chair. He held her gaze for a full two minutes longer, unwavering and direct, seeing through her. In to her. Passed her. She could see herself in dilating reflection of pupils, small, frail boned, and easily within reach. She had removed his mask hours ago in a moment of pity. She wished to god she hadn’t.

_Don’t make any sudden moves…_

The handcuffs seemed taut enough. Was there too much slack? Alana curled toes in her shoes and tried to stay perfectly still. She thought of Jack’s face shredded by teeth and knuckles. This was the man she didn’t know.

_We don’t yet have a name for what he is._

Amusement flickered bright blue, dragging across rigid posture. “Now if you mean in a more literal sense. Take this photo for example...” Will offered a Cheshire smile, flicking a polaroid across the table and lounged once more, his own visage of a predator at rest. “I can’t tell you how many arguments I won over the years by simply removing my clothes. As loathe as I am to admit it, I bet you know as well as I do the kind of experience afforded when Hannibal is ‘at the helm.’”

The insinuation fell upon deaf ears.

“Did you share other experiences with Hannibal?” Alana asked, relaxing a fraction only when Will finally broke eye contact.

The photo resting at her fingertips captured broad planes of Hannibal’s glistening back, one hand resting on the top of a lounge chair, bent over Will lying in a towel beside a sparkling pool. Their eyes were locked. Looking at one another. Sharing something with irrevocable intensity. On the verge of a fight or something else. Something entirely other. Someone she didn’t recognize with light lilac eyes waved at whoever was taking the photograph in the blurry background. Alana looked away. It seemed more intimate than seeing them kiss.

“You mean…besides the obvious?” Chains clattered as sweeping hands upturned in question. “Which I’m beginning to believe isn’t obvious to you.” An irritated sigh was followed by a mutter. “Or any other goddamn person in this Bureau for that matter.”

Fine dark brows knotted. “I mean did you share in…?”

_His appetites?_

“ _What?_ Spit it out for Chrissake!”

Alana jumped at the terse shout, a fist thumping loudly on the table, sending the photographs a quarter inch to the left with vibration.

“If we are going to play a game of vagaries and innuendo, Alana, we are going to be here all fucking day. Just say it.”

“When we went to get you…” She bit her mouth. “You were…”

She felt ice of the prison cells seeping through her legs, watching as Will broke skin and drank in a bloodied red stream from Hannibal’s arm. Lapped lavishly at blood.

“He used to serve us dinner. You, me, Jack. Did you get a taste for it?”

“For him? Or for people?” Bewilderment flicked up beneath long lashes. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not a heroine in an Anne Rice novel. I cannot in fact survive off Hannibal’s blood, though I think he would be absolutely fucking delighted by the suggestion.” He shrugged. “A man’s gotta eat.”

“So before?” She touched her wrist, unable to speak what she had seen.

Will cast a tongue across dry lips, amusement turning up corners. “Do you know when we used to give all those lectures on pathology? Or at least I did. Patterns of behavior? Fueled by sexual inclination as much as the innate sense of fight. Well, as it turns out… our dear cannibal enjoys being a snack once in awhile.”

She stared, both hands wringing her sweater beneath the table, perplexed.

“ _Alana_. For god sake, do I have to spell it out for you? I do. Great. I do.” The younger man glared up at the ceiling. But he wasn’t seeing the ceiling. He was snarling up at something or someone else. “You are a son of a bitch. And you can tell the priest I said so.”

A full eighty seconds passed in awkward silence.

Will threw his hands up in the air, chain jerking, before letting them fall. He shook his head, frustration hissing between teeth. He rolled his eyes and sat forward, pointing to the mirror behind her.

“I hope everyone is listening this time. I’m only going to say it once. That includes you, _Jack_.” Nostrils flared as a deep inhale filled lungs, coming out in a faint whistle to maintain a degree of calm. “He likes being bitten. He finds it arousing. The sounds I can get him to make…” Will murmured huskily, eyelids drooping over flashing blue. “And if I draw blood? Well, he says it’s better than deep throating, which I find hard to believe because I’m quite good at it. Then again.” He pointed at teeth. “These pearly whites do get him to come almost instantly.”

She choked at first, flattening palms against the table, glancing back at the mirror then at Will.

“Are you…? Are you suggesting your relationship with Hannibal was…” Full lips opened and closed several times without breathing a single consonant or vowel. Alana cleared her throat and tried again. “… _sexual_ in nature?”

“Is that…a _real_ question?” The younger man threw himself forward, balanced on shaking arms, dark cast of his silhouette glowering down. “What is it with you people! Jack, did you ever ask Alana how she and Margot liked to bang? Or are we just special?”

_You people?_ Cerulean eyes widened. _Does he really believe it’s an ‘us versus them’ situation?_

“Hold on. Slow down. Are you suggesting—“

“I’m not suggesting or insinuating shit. I am _telling_ you it was far more fulfilling than any vanilla gratification you had to offer him. If he had to choose, and he did choose, Alana…I would say he enjoys _fucking_ me more than you.”

Alana attempted to stifle another gasp, very tips of her ears swelling with pink heat. With a click, the video tape from the black ops prison began to replay in her mind. She saw the possessive heat of Hannibal’s hands sliding down Will’s body. How close they pressed to one another. How a tongue slipped through pink pliant lips to taste. Another tongue flicking back and then in. Even without audio, she pieced together fragments of memory when Hannibal had made love to her. Heard his groans of pleasure. Louder and louder.

“What’s it going to take? Huh?” Shouting rose in the background. “Let’s just get it out of the way, shall we? Since the lot of you seem to follow ‘seeing is believing’ to the letter. Not a single imagination between you. Evidently if Rosewell and Area 51 don’t exist then a former special agent and his psychiatrist can’t possibly have ever been intimate. Is that it? Fuck you!” Will flipped off whoever was behind the one way mirror, pacing as much his chains allowed. “You want porn? Fine! Bring Hannibal in here and we’ll fuck each other’s brains out. Kick back. Bring soda and popcorn. Then all of you can stop belittling our goddamn, loving, and consensual relationship to _meaningless, baseless_ sex acts.” A soft cushioned shoe kicked a chair. “You goddamn pieces of shit.”

Her mind raced in an attempt to assemble the jumble of words in an orderly structure. To form it in a way that made sense. None of it made sense. It just didn’t. Alana flashed to standing in Will’s house, his cool mouth on hers, and felt her heart fall flat. He had wanted her then, hadn’t he? Her stomach roiled. Crystal clear images of Hannibal filtered. His ruddy mouth and tongue between her thighs. Her crying out, delicate palms spread across thick hair on his chest, as she watched his heated gaze waver as she rode him. Had he only ever been imagining it was Will when he was with her? She had kissed Will. Will had told Hannibal. Had the older man been kissing him though her? By proxy?

“S-s-sit down, Will.” Alana commanded. “Please sit. They’ll take you away. I won’t have a say then.”

She thought of the way Hannibal had looked at Will over the years. The sheer intensity he possessed with a single glance. He didn't just want him. He needed him. Hungered for the mere sight of him. He had only ever looked at Will like that. What the hell did that mean? Did Hannibal love Will... or?

Will hurled himself against the chair, cursing, every inch of him beaded in sweat, shaking from head to toe. “Fuck you too, Alana.”

Pale skin flushed bright red, hoarse voice shaking out. “Will…in all the years I’ve known you, you have preferred women.”

_You preferred me._

“So do you. Apparently.” Will countered with a dry retort, rocking back in the chair, head tilting with a bitter snarl. “So was it more about me being ‘broken, unstable’ than it was about not having the right parts? Your wife seemed less than concerned about either of those issues.”

His abject agony resonated through her. Broke open her own, throbbing through her once fractured pelvis and reached her heart. They had used her. To get at one another.

“How—“

She was on her feet and reaching across the table before she could stop. The heel of her palm connected with a cheek with brutal force.

“—dare you!”

A horrible sound rang out. The sting raced up her fingertips, collision of bone against bone shaking through her arm. She withdrew the hand and pressed it to her mouth to keep a cry from escaping. It burned, hot to the touch.

“I…” Will clutched the side of his face with both hands staring up at her with grey blue pools of water, mouth falling open.

She watched as the younger man transformed. There Will sat. Her Will. Timidly rocking forward, averting her gaze, holding tight to his cheek. He looked devastated. She thought of all the pain Will had been through in his life. All the hurt he had endured. The anguish he had suffered year after year at the Fate of the world and people around him. She let her hand fall and looked at blotchy skin of life lines. She had stood by out of curiosity of observation and let him be devoured. By the F.B.I. By Jack. By Hannibal. And now she was participating in his destruction.

Some small, dark part of her whispered, _He deserves it._

Another replied. _Not all of it._

Fingertips fell to reveal a red mark. Her palm print. Lips parted to inhale a shaky breath. For a split second she thought she had gotten through to him. Finally reached him. A range of crippling emotion rearranged Will’s features. Pain. Hurt. Some flash of terror she had only seen on the abused. Then briefly a wrinkle of remorse. She thought he was going to apologize, reach for her, and tell her how sorry he was. For everything. Let her save him this time.

_I like you as a buffer…_

“I…deserved that.” A whisper admitted. “But did I deserve what happened before this? Before you brought us here. Did he? Or were you just using my suffering to get back at Hannibal? For what he did to you?”

_For what he did to me? What about what he did to you! What you let him do to me!_

“I don’t need to justify my actions.”

The boy she knew, soft and helpless, vanished.

“Neither do I!” Will slammed a photograph on the table, mouth trembling. “At least my reasons aren’t purely selfish. You give yourself too much goddamn credit as usual, Alana, as if _you_ made me this way. Let him have me. The crippled boy who just couldn’t protect himself without you acting as a buffer. You didn’t give me to Hannibal. I gave myself. He is everything to me. The rest of you don’t fucking matter. Now get the fuck out. We’re done talking.”

His words stung. Alana stared down at another photo, tears welling. Both Will and Hannibal were well dressed. Will wore a dark suit. Hannibal one of white with blood red accents. They beamed in to the camera, arms around one another in a silhouette of orb light. Wedding bands gleamed on their clasped hands. The offensively delicate, real, human image burned her eyes and the back of her throat.

A hoarse voice shook out, fingertips fluttering across the image, to hide it from her, to keep her from looking. “Let me keep one. You owe me.”

She could hear tears in his voice. It tore at her heart. Then she saw the very real tears in Margot’s eyes over the years and straightened, teeth gritting. She was what was important now. Nothing else. Will was lost. She couldn’t save him anymore. Never could. He had chosen his own destruction. She had just facilitated it.

_What’s done is done._

At least, that’s what she would tell herself years later.

“They’re evidence.” Alana snatched the polaroid and scooped happy images away, jerking the file folder out of reach and holding it tight to her chest. “I owe you nothing. You fucking deserve each other, Will.”

Hurt fractured a mouth open, shadows seeping out and twisting to furious demons. “They’re _mine_.”

She would give him nothing to hold on to. Not Will. Or Hannibal. They would live as empty and without comfort as Lecter once had. She would make sure of it.

“Not any more!”

“Did you cut out your heart when you murdered Mason Verger? I never knew you to be a cold hearted bitch.”

“And I never knew you at all.”

_Well, the way you think I am isn't always a reliable guide to who I am._

“In your defense…” A lip curled derisively. “You never really tried all that hard to know me, Alana. I’m only sorry I ever let you try.”

She opened her mouth to reply, fist twitching against her thigh. The door shuddered. A tall, thin man barged in to the interrogation room. A uniformed officer was close on his heels. His face was flushed like he had been screaming. His tight suit jacket was emblazoned with a visitor’s badge.

“Miss Bloom…” A leather briefcase banged on the table, fountain pens spilling out, rigid index finger swinging towards the open door. “I think you had better leave. I will not tolerate any further harassment of my client.”

_His lawyer?_

Legs wobbled as Alana stood and pressed her mouth to a firm line. A scream worked its way up her throat. The room began to spin. Her weak knees trembled. She shoved passed the man, side stepping Jack who materialized in her front of her, and fixed her eyes on the hideous green glow of an ‘exit’ sign. She had to leave. She couldn’t stay here anymore.

A cruel shout followed her down the hall, above the pounding of her feet in a stairwell. “Where are you going, Alana? Aren’t you going to pay my husband a visit? He’ll consider it rude if you don’t. But I’m guessing that doesn’t bother you too much. Or maybe it does. Seeing as how you were on the menu already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [11.24.19: These words are just as true now as they were when originally published. I know I'm way behind on getting these chapters back online and writing in general. Definitely writing in general. I unfortunately just do not have as much time or energy to dedicate to the work as I once did with a full time job, and find most days I come home pretty burned out. I do read every single comment you all post and they are still cherished.]
> 
> * * *
> 
> Hi there. Hello, friends. It is I. Your disappearing act of an author. (I'm not sure if I should lead or follow with an apology here? Maybe a brief explanation.)
> 
> I've actually been working on the next two chapters (and a rather long time stamp that got away from me) since our last post off and on for (fucking) weeks. My minds been a circuitous hum of white noise lately. I now work two jobs. (Three if you count my design business which I have all but discarded for blessed sleep and sanity?) My schedule is... Wait. What schedule? Anyway, hectic, up down, emotional roller coaster. And HEY. Would you look at that. It's after midnight. So here's to my birthday.
> 
> In conclusion. I'm a mess. Or someone now great at juggling? I love you all and hope you won't be too disappointed. I have *every* intention of seeing EB to its conclusion. It just might be scattered? Intermittent?
> 
> Your comments: I will answer them! And thank you so much for sticking by me. Seriously. Sincerely.


	20. Chapter 20

“Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me.”

Rough hands sent Silas sprawling, falling back against a broad steel table. His glasses bounced on his nose and fell somewhere to the floor.

“Where were you! Huh!”

His blurred vision rose to watch the shape of possessed shadow pacing back and forth, hands clenching and unclenching. He tried again. He threw both arms around the struggling form and tried to get him to sit down. To sit still. Drink some water. At the very least to stop yelling.

“Calm down!” He pleaded as elbows jabbed his side. “You t-think they won’t t-take you away just because I’m here? You want them to sedate you? Will, you attacked the guard. He could press charges! They could—”

The room was windowless. Free of cameras. But he didn’t think it was sound proof. Not at the level the man was shouting at.

“Stop.” Will shoved, both hands clamped over ears, eyes squeezed shut. “Stop. Stop! Stop!”

The floor grazed his head with a burst of pain. Fevered pacing returned. Hands patted across rough carpet and white squared tile as Silas searched for his glasses. This was getting out of control. He had only met Will once. Then he had been lost to sleep and sated starvation in Hannibal’s arms. He had no idea how to deal with him. Not like this. He wasn’t just agitated. His entire body radiated instability. And everything he said or did made it worse.

“How long has he been like this?” A voice boomed from above.

He turned to find Hannibal crouched behind him, glasses in an outstretched hand, eyes dark and fixed on Will. Something flashed against desert maroon, a memory, maybe. The older man was rubbing at a red spot where handcuffs had been removed. They had been too tight if they left marks. He made mental note of it.

The young man got to knees. Silas took the glasses and pushed them with an index finger up the bridge of his nose, struggling to meet a stony gaze. He wished he couldn’t see. This Hannibal was nothing like the kind doctor of his youth. The man staring back at him held his gaze with the glint of nightmare and violence. He tried to scramble away at the last minute.

“Silas!” A hand coiled in his tie, yanking him forward. “How long.”

“I…” He was inches away from fiery red eyes. “I d-d-don’t know. I just got here.”

A tongue ticked over sharp teeth. “Do you no longer wish to be under my employ?”

“S-s-sir, I—“ Silas cowered, shaking beneath pressure tightening around his throat and cutting off oxygen.

“ _Where_ have you been?”

The lawyer shook his head, reply gurgling out.

“I expected you twenty four hours prior as was our agreement! Yesterday, Silas. Can you no longer tell time? Read a calendar? What! What?”

A tie hissed free of a fist.

The young man fell forward on hands, gasping for air. “They t-told me they couldn’t find you. I t-tried—“

“They are manipulative sons of bitches,” Hannibal snarled. “In the future, I would advise you to fulfill your obligations as my lawyer. Not _try_ to do so, Mister Silas.” Harsh fingers gripped him by the cheeks and the older man pressed closer. His breath fiery and glint of a smile sharp. “If you will recall, Byron Metcalf met an untimely end by not rising to the occasion. I sent you the news article, did I not?”

“Doctor Lecter.” Silas felt bile roil in his stomach, squeezing eyes shut. “I’m s-s-sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Very well.”

Fingers fell away as soon as they appeared. He crumpled to the floor with relief. He lay there for a moment, panting, trying to catch his breath. Hands jostled him up underneath arms. He glanced up anxiously. Hannibal placed him carefully against a metal chair. A sinewy hand plucked a checked pocket square free and dabbed at splotchy tears on his face and lenses. The older man smoothed wrinkles from his suit jacket and delicately adjusted the Windsor knot his throat. He opened his mouth to apologize again. Anything else was going to sound like an excuse.

Hannibal shook his head firmly and stood. “Give us a moment. Do not interrupt.”

“Y-y-yes, sir. Of course.”

Digging out a legal pad, Silas snuck furtive glances, tensing as Hannibal moved across the room to Will. He started to spin a pen against lambskin covered knuckles. He wasn’t sure he was prepared to see either of them like this. He braced for impact. He knew what happened when two storms collided.

“Mylimasis, _please_ …” Hannibal watched Will pace back and forth, trailing a light hand on a stomach as he passed for a seventh time, tone as smooth as his touch. “I have missed you.”

Will didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge him, reply acidic and accusatory. “Don’t you dare. Not after what you did.”

Weary sighs filled the room. “What could I have possibly done, Will? This is the first I have seen you.” Another pass and Will bumped forcibly against the older man’s shoulder with a cold glare. A peaked nose tipped up, inhaling. Color drained from a mouth. “You smell of blood.”

Silas nearly snapped a fountain pen in half when a predatory gaze fell on him.

“What did he do?” A tremoring bass demanded.

Will halted, turned on the ball of his foot, and stalked forward. “Look at me! Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. Like I’m some object.”

The lawyer sank further in his chair, wriggling until just the top of his head poked above a briefcase, hoping it might disguise him. Or make him disappear. He was going to set aside his initial decision of docile deference not to interrupt. He selected his next best, safest, option available. To stay the hell out of it entirely.

“Then feel free…” Hannibal side stepped, graceful hand sweeping behind him towards Silas and an empty chair, smile thin. “…to stop pacing like a caged animal, come sit with the adults at the table, and converse. Tell me what happened.”

Will lunged and grabbed the front of a prison uniform, yelling, “I’m so fucking sick and tired of everyone asking me that!”

Elegant tortoise shell glasses glinted in the horrendous yellow light. A strained smile evaporated.

“Will.” Lashes blinked slowly over maroon eyes becoming still and icy, voice sending a chill through the air. “Take them off.”

Nostrils flared, reply even colder. “ _No_.”

“You will remove them or I will take them from you. Which do you prefer?”

“Try.” The younger man shook the other by the front of his uniform, drawing up to his full height. “See what happens.”

Hannibal placed the tip of his tongue between teeth, mentally counting, mouth pressing white then blood red. “I will not ask a second time.”

Peeking from behind a briefcase, a gaze darted from the two men squaring off. Tension crackled in the air. They stood toe to toe. Eye to eye. Nothing but swinging fists between them. Minutes passed. Deathly still quiet.

“Fine. Have it your way, darling.”

There was blur of movement. Then a bang. Suddenly Hannibal was struggling to keep Will pinned against a corner.

“—Christ! Get off me.”

Legs kicked out against a broad torso. Grunts grew louder. The men wrestled against one another. The older man tore glasses from a face. Will snatched them back, throwing all his weight forward. Nails slashed across an arching cheek then a neck. Hannibal banged the offending hand against the wall and shoved, sending them both sprawling against the opposite wall. Wounded howls rose as the glasses were clawed away once more. Glass fractured. Frames cracked. Crushed by an unforgiving fist.

Swinging away, Hannibal dropped the broken glasses with disdain and glided back to the table. He barely looked affected by the scuffle. Breath even, cheeks flushed from exertion and fresh nail scrapes. He smoothed hair back. Adjusted the rumpled state of his uniform with a curt tug. Then sat gracefully, one leg tucked across the other. He reached around the briefcase and took both paper and pen from the man hiding on the other side. The scratch of a pen filled brittle air with terse sketching.

Will gaped at Hannibal, mouth open, eyes flashing between rage and disbelief. His uniform was torn at the right pocket. Blood smudged against a sleeve cuff. He panted, chest expanding and deflating with jerky motion. Blue eyes fell to the glasses. A second later, the younger man stormed across the room, ripped the pad of paper from Hannibal’s hands, and flung it away.

“You want to know what’s wrong! You want to know what’s WRONG!” Will screamed, jerking hands frantically through dark hair. “This! All of this. You especially. What the fuck was that just now, huh?”

Hannibal gazed up at Will through narrowed eyes and held out his hand, reply exacting and even. “I asked politely.”

Silas grimaced. Took out another pad of paper and slid it nervously around the briefcase. The palm remained, upturned, empty. He swallowed and held it out. Hannibal took it then went back to sketching. Will began to shake, fists clenched and white, jaw clenching and unclenching.

“You demanded! And what? What?” Raw emotion ground out. “I just needed to fucking comply. Obey is that it? Even in here you need me to kneel at your feet, right? That’s what you want from me?”

Another pad of paper thwacked against a far wall.

The older man shook his head, placed the ball point carefully on the table, and folded hands in his lap. “If you would please stop shouting, William, and taking things that do not belong to you.”

Cotton slippers kicked off. Will threw one after the other over their heads. A fist banged on the table. Silas jumped. Hannibal appeared unmoved, staring at something else, refusing to look at the outburst. A palm lifted. An onyx ring rolled, quivered, and then toppled to a stop on the table. The lawyer sat forward as maroon eyes slid to stare longingly at precious metal.

_How in the hell…?_

Hannibal placed two fingers lightly against Will’s wrist without looking up. A timid caress. A flood of tears filled blue eyes before pacing began again. The younger man chaffed hands up and down his arms and torso as if he was freezing cold.

“You tore my heart from my chest, forced it in my mouth with your tongue, and asked me to _choke_ on the only reminder I had left of our lives! To suffocate on all my broken promises it symbolized.”

The older man turned in his chair, elbows jammed against thighs, and covered a face with palms to keep quiet.

“And then.” Hysteric laughter barked. “Oh here’s the kicker. Then you made me sit through hour after hour, after goddamn hour, of questioning. About our sex life, Hannibal, which we apparently don’t have because I’m too—what!“

Hannibal glanced up, looking straight at Will, surprise and then anger contorting shadowed features.

“Too broken, too forced, too straight—take you’re fucking pick—to be in a relationship. Even with you! As f-f-fucked up as you are. Even then I’m not worthy!”

Hysteria turned fragile, harsh voice riddled with sobs choked and held down.

“Imagine that! So I can’t possibly be with you. They have reduced us to nothing but base impulse. Do you have any idea how much…how hard that is to hear? Especially after…”

Hannibal stood suddenly and placed a single palm on a stomach. Will stumbled to a stop, inhaling harshly and exhaling a strangled sob. They both kept their gaze fixed to the floor.

The rest came out a feeble whisper. “After everything.”

Fingertips idly stroked a stomach, maroon eyes searching a tiled floor for the right words to speak. For a moment they stood still.

“The ring was intended to give you comfort. Foremost it was to show who you belonged to.” Hannibal’s voice was low, a stone sinking to an ocean floor, desperately trying to breathe under water. “Does the weight of their words, their fickle and flawed perceptions, over turn all you know to be true between us, Will? Let them think what they wish. We will be true to one another, won’t we?” The older man turned, hooking his other hand around a neck loosely, bending close to whisper, “I want to be the only voice you hear in your head, William. When you can hear no other. Listen to mine.”

“This—“ Nails scraped over a scalp, hand shaking, gesturing to the ring on the table. “—is torment. You gave me this. A heartless reminder of all I could not give you!”

Dark eyes snapped shut. Something rippled across a forehead and flinched harshly in a cheek. “Are you calling me…” An adam’s apple bobbed with a pause. “…heartless?”

“I’m saying it with enthusiasm,” The younger man hissed, hitting away both hands. 

“You are testing my already waning patience, dearest.”

“Fuck your patience.”

Hannibal jerked an arm around a narrow waist and dragged Will forward, then flattened him against the wall. He gripped wrists in a single hand, stretching them up, and over a head.

Blue eyes misted. “I told you to let go!”

The older man shook his head, drew close, and began to drink against a scowling mouth, languid and slow.

“Will, you need—let me. Please.“

“I don’t need a goddamn thing from you.”

Silas looked away. When he looked again Hannibal’s lip was split and covered in blood. Will licked red off his own teeth.

The older man straightened and forced space between them, tone clipped. “I will choose to ignore this outburst and blame your appalling behavior on sleep deprivation. You don't know what you are saying. Silas, would you mind fetching us a meal?”

Silas rose, knees quaking, gaze darting to the door. Freedom was in sight. Maybe when he came back everything would better.

_Define better…?_

“Oh no. No, no, no. Silas, sit the hell down.”

Relief and hope, however, were both short lived. He slumped back in the chair and rummaged through his briefcase. He pulled out a cell phone then a pair of white earbuds. He didn’t have to suffer through this and listen did he? If it was going to turn bloody, he at least wanted plausible deniability of the incident.

_What happened to your clients, Councilor?_

_Gee, I don’t know you’re honor. I was listening to the Arctic Monkeys at full blast. Couldn’t hear a thing. I mean the quality of these headphones, right? Those guys at Apple are geniuses. Anyway. By the time I realized what was happening they were both dead._

“If he goes, we go, and I am not _done_ with you yet.”

“Are you sufficiently done running your offensive mouth?” Blood dragged across a sleeve, wiping teeth in to view. “Or do I have that yet to look forward to while we wait?”

“It’s _so easy_ for you.” A rosy mouth trembled and Will moved, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Hannibal, standing at the opposite end of the room. “All of this. To just walk away from me and forget. Your books. Your drawings. To live with a version of me inside your own head. And a better one to love. To touch. To fuck!”

Silas moved quietly, reached across the table, and dragged the ring in to his palm. He tried not to make a sound. He tucked it in a breast pocket. They would want it later. Maybe not now. Or anytime soon. (Particularly as it was considered contraband. Or at the very least another inmate might consider worthy of carving a shive to steal in prison.) He would hold on to it. Keep it safe. Until he could return it to another family member. Or a friend.

_Do they have any friends?_

Hannibal followed and slung one arm around a waist, the other against a chest, palms pressing above a heart and stomach, growl vibrating deep against an ear. “I have never left you of my own free will. You saw to it I left once because it is what _you_ wanted. Not what I did. Have you given much thought to what little choice _I_ have in the matter, Will, or are you intent on blaming me all the same?” Hurt flinched across a mouth in admission. “I am as powerless now as I was then.”

Fragile tears glimmered on cheeks. “It doesn’t even bother you. As cold and cool as ever.”

“How—“

“Ah!” The lawyer squeaked, diving beneath the table for cover.

Will landed on top a moment later with a groan of pain. Bare feet swung, struggling to rise. Hannibal pounced and crushed him against it, shaking palm on a chest, the other gripping an edge of the table. Lips curled back, teeth snapping and snarling, helpless emotion pouring free and filling the room in a boom.

“—is it you possibly imagine I remain unmoved from having my freedom, my life, _you_ , torn from my grasp again! Do I have the appearance of man not in anguish every moment both waking and unconscious? Do you think if I was still capable of cutting you out of me and returning to the calloused exterior of a man devoid of emotion, I would not have done so? Years before this!”

Palms banging on the table weakened. Someone started to cry. The older man withdrew, crumpling to sit on an edge of the table. Large hands turned over in the light with a fierce tremor. His voice became a stripped, stark tremble of need and desperation.

“Then I could slit your throat out of self preservation and not because my heart _demands_ to watch you suffer merely to call you mine. I asked you to go. To leave me. You stayed. You have destroyed me, Will...”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This possible preview of them in prison is unacceptable and painful, dear author, please rewrite it.
> 
> Angsty make up sex ensues...........after these brief messages from our sponsors.
> 
> Look, Silas, man. I am counting on your headphones being really high quality and loud. So you should look in to that while we're away.


	21. Chapter 21

The older man glanced over his shoulder. Will was still sprawled on his back, panting up at yellow lights buzzing on the ceiling, fingers clenching and unclenching. Tears quivered in eyes. He rose and turned, closing his eyes for a second, attempting to pull the softer parts of his soul to the surface and provide comfort. Hands planted against the interrogation table, Hannibal tried to catch his breath, rise and fall of his chest as ragged as the one beneath. He tried not to look at the blurred man in the reflection, red eyed and cruel snarl full of teeth. His arms shook with the weight of his screams lingering in the air. He forced hot breath from his lungs, hoping to expel demons with it, wounded and screeching.

_I wanted to hold you, Will, touch you gently. Why must you fight to bring out this other side of me?_

“I want no one and nothing to claim you, William, not even the State.” He said hoarsely, pressing a chaste kiss to a knee. “Nothing, not a single one of them is allowed to own you. You belong to me. Why can you not understand what this does to me?”

_Who you claw out of the depths of my soul?_

He shook with rage. Blood rushing hot. Skin pricking with sweat. The room felt too small, too hot, too closed in. His mouth throbbed from being bitten open at the seam. He could still feel the press of a scar through fabric of a prison uniform, singing his fingertips. The touch had calmed them only for a moment. Heard a harsh lash of his husband’s voice break across his skin and lance bone deep. He tried to pace his breathing, but it kept shuddering free from his lungs desperate and shallow. His legs ached, his knees shook. Light sensation dragged from his mouth to his chest and fell further. He opened his eyes, unable to recall closing them, and found Will staring at the apex of his thighs, teeth sliding over a bottom lip.

He glanced down. Wet stained fabric. His cock strained against the front of his uniform. His brain suddenly registered the source of burning heat and ache. Arousal hit him hard. His shaft jerked, wet leaking and pooling between his thighs. He gripped the table and exhaled sharply, shaking harder. Soft whimpers reached him. His gaze moved up tensing calves then slid between parted knees resting on either side of his hips. An answering stir of desire filled out the younger man’s uniform. The older man held on to the table as he breathed in brine and sweat, lips falling open to taste lingering scent.

_Or is this the part of me you need? To give you what you want?_

Will stared unblinking at the ceiling, breathing fast, as Hannibal reached for the zipper on his uniform. It whirred down to expose a sternum then a navel and quivering stomach. Down and down and down. Flushing skin crept after the zipper. A half hard cock curled against thick dark pubic hair, just a thick vein and head peeking from beneath gaping seams. The younger man’s scent coiled thick in the air. Hannibal groaned, leaning on the table for support, breathing deeper. He wanted to lick up a thickening shaft and tongue at beads of white slipping free on a reddening head. Legs began to shake. He wanted to suck him. Reach in his uniform and palm his balls, squeezing to the tempo of a each lick. Until he was dripping in spit before toying with the ring of muscle between cheeks.

“N-no.” Will arched his back and moaned loudly as if Hannibal was buried in him knuckles deep and sucking at just the tip, wet spreading against a stomach. “Please don’t.”

_I’m not even touching you…_

He kept one palm on the table and used the other to ghost over the younger man’s body. Close enough to feel the heat of it. Not enough to make contact. He wouldn’t touch him. Not yet. Will breathed harder, gripping the table, eyes screwed shut. Empathy was enough. His thumb skirted an inner thigh, circling clenching cheeks, and followed a seam to a bulge of tight balls. He used the back of fingernails for the faintest brush. The younger man bucked, knees digging in to his thighs, heels dragging at the back of his legs.

The older man traded a small smile of satisfaction for teeth. With two fingers, he followed the length of a swollen cock leaking against a belly, lifting them away when it jerked in response, remembering, sensing his touch. Will moaned, twisting teeth frantically over a bottom lip. It was beginning to chaff, becoming bloody, lips crimson and beckoning. Hannibal clenched his jaw to fight back a groan. He wanted to suck it into his mouth, bite it open, and lick it clean over and over. A pinky swished a light line from navel to collarbone. Knuckles blanched white, body shuddering, sheen of sweat appearing.

Hannibal leaned forward slightly, widening legs enough to step safely between them without making contact. He touched the rough cast on his leg, lucid images of holding Will down and slamming in to a sweet hole until he screamed burning bright. He breathed hot hair against trembling lips. Water streaked free from closed eyes and pooled against the table as the younger man whimpered. He shoved a palm beneath a uniform and twisted the bud of a nipple without warning. Will cried out, cheeks burning red, white fluid streaking up his stomach.

He collapsed against the table, begging, “Touch me, god, touch me, please.”

Running a tongue across a blistering lower lip, Hannibal pushed cropped curls from a damp forehead before winding his fingers in them and gave a gentle tug. Then a sharper one. Will exposed the soft line of his throat with a whine, palms frantically searching for a place to hold on to again. Before he could get a good grip, the older man yanked him across the table by hair and ankle. Legs fell open obediently, curled toes roughing up and down his calf. The younger man peeled the prison uniform down his waist, baring a slicked pink cock fully to the air and bright red eyes. He peered up, waiting, trembling with anticipation, wondering where fingers or mouth might touch. The longer he waited the wider pupils dilated until only a rim of blue remained against black. Hannibal leaned back and crossed his arms, slipping a tongue slowly across his teeth. His cock pulsed hot with fluid, untouched, throbbing for the press of his palm. Panting grew more frantic as the older man looked on with disinterested appraisal.

Hannibal tipped slightly forward, blue eyes fluttering closed, and murmured, “I am not going to touch you, Will.”

Eyes screwed shut as a violent shudder of need shook through Will. The younger man whimpered and reached to take his cock and jerk off. A sharp cheek and nose twitched. Hannibal pulled forward until legs dangled, Will trapped against him, and grabbed the hand in mid air. He tore open the zipper on his uniform and pushed Will’s hand inside, breath stuttering as he wrapped slim fingers against balls and then dragged a rough palm from root to tip. A guttural swear tore free from his chest. The younger man sat up, panting open mouthed against his ribs, watching come spurt through their linked fingers, wet spreading to coat thighs. A needy hand twitched against his thigh to relieve a swelling ache.

_Good boy. Waiting for my permission._

“Tell me, does _this_ feel cold?” Hannibal growled harshly against the curve of an ear, teeth snapping at tendons in a throat. “Devoid of emotion? In control? Am I still heartless, Will?”

Teeth clamped on flesh, tugging, sucking it raw. “I want you to suffer.”

“Does it excite you to know how much control you wield over me even outside your cursory presence and watchful eye?” The older man asked, gripping curls and forcing Will to look up.

“Yes.” Will snarled, shoving a hand away, and jerking a slick cock tighter and faster, ringing two fingers against the frenulum until Hannibal tipped his head back and moaned. “I don’t want you to forget me. I want them to know. To hear you. Do you remember your mine, Hannibal?”

The younger man shoved away and slid from the table, sucking come from each finger, walking backwards to the wall, beckoning with each swirl of a wet tongue.

“How could I forget…” Hannibal stalked after and flattened Will to the wall, knee nudging thighs open, groaning when a cock began to rub against it. “…when I can think of nothing, of no one, except you.”

A throaty whisper pressed to his ear. “Like Italy?”

“Far worse. Blistering affliction eating at my soul.” The older man bit against a throat, sliding teeth bitterly from pulse to shoulder, sucking livid bruises. “It would be kinder if you had killed me. Or if I had walked away.”

A palm jabbed against his stomach, knocking him back. Hands shoved shoulders. Will muscled him against the wall and tugged his lip between teeth, stretching it out before biting it open again. Hannibal growled and shoved a blood slicked mouth against his, nipping until it slid open. Burning wet heat tangled against his as the younger man licked back then began to suck. Another push parted them, both panting, rutting against one another. An insistent hand burrowed in his uniform and Hannibal shouted as Will gripped his cock in a punishing up stroke.

“You’re not going anywhere. Ever!” Will growled, punctuating each word with a rough jerk of his hand, grip tightening, working him faster and faster. “I’m not kind. I’m fucking selfish. You’re mine.”

“Will—“ Hannibal panted fiercely against a throat, watching a blurring hand on him, his come streaking across the younger man’s cock. His balls lifted and tightened. He tipped his chin to moan. “Close. I’m close.”

Just as the pressure built and his legs began to shake, Will let go and stepped away, lip twitching over teeth, pointing to the ground where broken glasses were, fingertip dripping in white heat. “Get on your knees and fucking apologize.”

Red flashed through his vision. Lust and then fury overtook him.

“I didn’t mean—“ Breath stuttered out, trying to take it back.

Hannibal gripped Will by shoulders and pinned him to the wall, crushing both wrists in a single hand, breathing heavily against an erratic pulse. Trembling over took him again. Blinded by need for touch and comfort of release.

“Hann—“

“Kindly shut your mouth, William.” The older man snapped, wringing red around wrists, watching the way a pink cock twitched and arced every time his teeth came close to grazing skin. “Do you think you can manage such a simple request?”

“I don’t want this,” He whispered airily.

“Now…” The older man slid index finger and thumb up a trachea with a squeeze, hooked a chin, and forced Will to look him in the eyes. His mouth swollen and crimson. Eyes nearly black with desire. “… say it like you mean it.”

The younger man moaned and scoured nails down his back. He gripped short hair and banged their mouths together. Teeth and breath and spit. Will rolled against his thigh, tongue thrust deep in a mouth, and moaned louder the harder he rubbed. Hannibal hooked a hand around his ass to quicken the rhythm and squeezed at the base of his cock as it twitched, threatening to come from just friction and lilts of pleasure growing sharp.

Breathless sighs of pleasure grew more desperate pressed against the heat of their mouths with a needy _yes, yes, yes_ and grew more frantic as Will sucked on the lobe of an ear and licked down a throat to whisper, _I want you, I want you, I want you._

It took everything he had not to reach for their cocks and jerk them off.

“On the floor.” Hannibal gripped hair and pulled a mouth from sucking a hickey on his chest, widening his stance. “I will not be made to repeat myself. I am finished indulging you for the day.”

With a groan, Will slid against the wall to his knees and looked up hungrily. Pupils blown wide. His lovely cock bobbed, slicked wet and reddened from rubbing against fabric, come dribbling at the stretched seam of the uniform. Hannibal’s own come was splashed against a quivering belly. Hands hovered obediently against knees. A mouth trembled, trying to repress the need to whimper.

“No.” The older man shook his head firmly, stepping in. “You will speak when spoken to.”

Blue eyes fell to the floor, red staining cheeks.

“Look at me.”

Will winced before looking up, gaze turning from guilt to lust in a single blink. Hannibal kept his uniform on, thick red cock seeming longer and thicker hanging out from the open zipper, pull of the seam heightening his pleasure as he shifted forward. He could feel heat of the younger man’s ragged breath inches away.

“You do not want an apology. You long for reckoning. Not at your hands. But at my own.”

The older man licked his palm and wrapped fingers around his cock, sighing relief with a long tug. He worked himself harder, grip loose and even. He didn’t want to come. Not from this. He just liked the way Will kept licking his lips, watching each stroke carefully, desperate to taste him. He slowed strokes then stopped.

“Searching for control that does not belong to you?”

A pink head slicked in and out of fingers as Will jerked himself off while watching Hannibal do the same.

“An unwise course of action.”

He pressed a foot down against a wrist. Will made a frustrated sound before obediently returning the hand where it belonged against a knee. Hannibal lifted his cock and pressed just the tip to firm lines of a mouth. The younger man closed his eyes and inhaled, twisting fabric tighter and tighter against his knees.

“You will ask. As you once did. For me to return control to you. And I will provide it. Hold you. Tear you apart and place your soul where I discovered it with equal kindness.”

“Please.” Lips trembled against his cockhead becoming wet.

“Do you deserve it?” Hannibal asked, smearing come against a mouth, stroking dark curls gently. “After such an awful, petty display of petulance. Disrespectfully throwing about your temper in front of a guest no less.” He felt a tongue rolling desperately just inside parted lips. “Will. Answer me out loud. You may speak.”

“N-n-no.” The younger man bent forward, clinging to the front of his trousers, head shaking fiercely, voice an aching whisper, “No, I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.”

Smoothing hands over bare shoulders, Hannibal began to run his fingers through hair and across a face pressed tight against his thigh, with long and soothing strokes. They couldn’t continue until the boy stopped shaking. He caressed his scalp lightly and then massaged. With a shudder of content, Will slid hands from calves to thighs until he gripped a taut ass with a whine, cheek rubbing where a zipper lay against skin. The tip of a tongue flicked lightly against a shaft. Once then twice. The third time in a thick wet stripe of spit.

“Stop.” The older man hissed, drawing Will away, thumbing gently at fluttering eyelids trying to trap tears. “What you are attempting is a privilege. Do you understand why I am not allowing it?”

Will nodded, brows knitting. “I was rude.”

“And?”

“I demand instead of ask. I raised my voice. I…” The younger man gripped his leg again, kissing from knee to thigh, sliding closer and closer, whimpers pleading to taste. “I made you wait. I didn’t think about what you needed. Or how you felt. I’m sor—mmph.”

Hannibal hooked a thumb against lovely lips and pushed across pricking pearly teeth to press down on a tongue. Blue eyes flashed up. He teased lips with a cockhead until a strangled moan rushed out. Then he slid in to wet heat and groaned. Will sobbed, running the flat of his tongue along a thick vein, waiting for instruction.

“You do far better without speaking, do you not?”

The younger man moaned a reply, nodding, earnest vibration making Hannibal dizzy.

“Good. Only a taste.”

Will closed his eyes and lifted up on knees. He slid palms tenderly around a face and chin to hold him close, to ground him, to remind him he was safe. A tongue flicked tentatively at a head. It prodded a rush of liquid from the slit. Hannibal bit down on his cheek. Lips parted in a rush of breath, tongue curling to slide from beneath his frenulum to the base, tightening on the upstroke. Wavering blue eyes lifted, filled with need for reassurance.

“Very good, Will…” He murmured, smiling as the side of a face leaned in to seek a firm press of touch. He toyed delicately with short curls, stroking flushed skin as a tongue rubbed around the tip, flicking it left and right. “How well you are doing. Head back. Can you take more?”

Heavy eyelids sank over bright blue as the younger man sighed contently around him, widening knees to slid further, chin tipping up to balance. Hannibal readjusted with one hand against the wall and pushed in. Lips slackened, jaw widening, breath exhaling from a nose. He thrust in and out a few times to feel the rough texture of a tongue seeking out every part of him.

“What a lovely mess.” The older man murmured, slipping free of a shoe, and rubbing toes against a steadily leaking cock. “Do you think you deserve to come?”

Frantically shaking his head no, Will grabbed Hannibal’s ass, and began thrusting his cock deep in his throat. His sucking became frantic. Needy whimpers vibrated against hollowed cheeks. He began to thrust back, foaming spit dribbling down a chin. The older man braced himself with both hands, gaze darting between a red rubbed mouth swallowing him whole and the twitch of the boy’s untouched cock. Hips thrust in the air. Scent of come and beginnings of orgasms filled his lungs.

“Enough.” Hannibal croaked, tugging frantically at hair, knee banging against a shoulder as a grip tightened around his legs. “Enough, Will!”

The quell of an orgasm burned up his throat for a second time. The older man pushed away and stumbled back against the table. He was breathing hard. Skin hot. Dripping against the tiled floor. Will was still on his knees, doubled over, shuddering from denied release.

Gasping air choked out a final command. “On your feet if you wish to finish with me.”

Dazed, the younger man stumbled over and held on to Hannibal as if he might collapse, body jerking, soft sob pressed to his chest. Hands pawed frantically as Will whimpers pitched high. The older man would always give him comfort. He would always provide. But he needed Will to remember he just needed only to ask to receive it. No matter how angry he was or how dire their situations got. Hannibal would be there, waiting, for whenever Will needed him.

“Use your words or I leave us both like this.”

“Close.” Frantic kisses wound down his throat as Will pressed hands tight around his waist, rocking their hips slowly together. “I need you close.”

Hannibal kissed Will tenderly, fingers brushing against his rough scalp, both arms curving around him to hold close. The younger man begin to sob, each press of lips swallowing his cries and whispering _hush, hush, let me hold you._ He cradled the smaller body between knees, rocking until cries lessened. Their mirrored ache for contact brushed against their thighs. He thought of how much Will needed to be lifted, held in the strength of his arms against the wall, as Hannibal moved deep inside him drawing out screams of relief.

_There would be no further talk or question from anyone here ever again of who you belong to._

“Does it hurt?” Timid whispers and fingertips touched the cast on his leg then his split lip. “Did I hurt you? Before.”

“A bit.” Hannibal smiled, stroking tears from eyes, nose playfully nudging a cheek. “And no. I quite missed your sharp mouth. Shh. That’s quite enough. Let me comfort you.”

Clipped curls fell over watering eyes as Will shook his head and led him to a chair propped in a corner of the room. He fell against it, breath catching as the uniform was peeled down to his thighs, arresting his movement. He would only be able to take what Will gave him. A uniform shimmied down knees then clung to an ankle. The boy straddled thighs, running hands over his face, his neck, the hair on his chest. He shivered as Will began to rub against his navel and held even closer, staring directly in his eyes, open and vulnerable. He could see both their needs reflected in pools of blue, his and Will's, entwined. Their dicks tangled and then pressed in a wet slide against one another. Hannibal moaned, biting the slope of a shoulder, running his fingertips along the curve of a spine and then slipping to cradle soft swells.

“Please.” Will moaned in his ear.

He shook his head, mouth dry. He forgot how to speak at all when Will lifted, sliding his own hand between legs, and began to open himself up. One finger and then two. By three he was writhing, head thrown back, rocking down on to fingers and against Hannibal’s cock. Moans plumed against his shoulder as the boy fell forward, moaning and licking up his neck. He gripped the chair and tried to remember the last time they had been intimate.

_Italy. On the balcony of our hotel after breakfast. The morning before we were—_

“I _need_ this,” Will begged, thrusts becoming frantic. “You.”

“Slowly.” The older man demanded hoarsely, spitting on his palm and then pumping his cock a few times, sliding one hand to Will’s neck and the other to hold muscles of a thigh bunching to stand. “I will not be made to hurt you out of desperation.”

He tensed. They had only had sex without lubrication a handful of times. Usually after fights or a particularly stressful kill went awry. He hadn’t prepared Will languidly with his mouth or tongue. The stretch would sting. He knew it would be rough when it should have been gentle for their first time after so many months. He wanted to be tender. He flexed fingers lightly around a waist, shuddering as Will moaned softly against his neck, cock prodding a tight hole.

“But I am desperate,” A husky whisper pressed to a sharp cheekbone, sliding to rest warm lips against an ear. “I want you in me. I want it so bad.”

Will thumbed at strained knuckles gently and slid on to a cock inch by inch with a whimper. Thighs shook around Hannibal. Knees clenched against his waist as the younger man waited to adjust. Only when he was pressed balls deep did he dare to moan appreciatively, sheathed tight in heat.

“You feel divine, darling…” Hannibal kissed the crown of his head, breathless.

“M-move.” Gasps nuzzled against his chest. “Please. Please move.”

The older man stroked ribs and began to bounce him gently, slouching in the chair to find the best angle. He watched Will loosely stroke himself to ease the pain. Slim fingers rolled and pinched a nipple trying to twist the way Hannibal had. He smiled when the younger man cried out, lapping at the sting as fingers continued to pinch. His thrusts deepened, becoming long and unhurried, quickening only when hands twisted against his shoulders. He rolled hips up. His cock nudged a prostrate. Will scratched nails down his chest, groaning low. Hands tightened around a neck as the boy leaned out, head back, chest arching as a blush tumbled over rosy nipples and spread over a clenching stomach.

He breathed tenderly against a throat. “You are exquisite. Beautiful.”

Blushing bled from cheeks to ears. Will began to kiss him open mouthed, breathing for one another, rolling hips languidly. He lifted up and sank all the way down on a cock, drawing out pleased grunts. The younger man watched his expression, adjusting angle and thrust to draw out Hannibal's pleasure, rocking and swiveling until he sighed or groaned.

Whispers nuzzled against hair. “How do you feel?”

The last part of the question stuttered as the pace drastically changed. Will began to fuck himself on Hannibal’s cock fast and hard.

“Can’t talk.” A high pitched gasp. “Later.”

The older man gripped narrow shoulders, head falling back, unable to catch his breath. He drove through tight folds, hitting a prostrate lightly and then harder. Thighs slapped against one another. Metal chair legs scraped against the floor and banged against the wall. The boy’s sweet cock was leaking all over him, staining his legs, his uniform, the chair beneath. He wanted to touch him, but the room started to spin. It was all he could do to hold on to Will. Two fingers hooked at the base of his dick, thumb rubbing balls. His vision blurred.

Distantly he heard, "Does this feel good? Holding you and moving inside me?"

Their voices rose over one another, cracking and pitching between grunts and moans _. I can’t, I can’t._ Fingers fumbled to grip a wet cock, tightening, jerking faster. _Ah ah ah, Hannnn_. Sweat beaded against grey hair on a chest, thumb hooked against the nape of the neck, fiery red holding blue steady below. _Not yet, hold on, stay here, look at me._

Will began to cry, clinging to broad shoulders, shaking harder and harder, thrusts become more and more erratic. As heat and pressure gathered, building faster and faster, fear filled stormy blue eyes. Terrified by the twine of their skin and mouths.

“Will—“ Hannibal gasped against Will’s mouth, pressing a fluttering palm to his hammering heart, a reminder of the power held over him, to bring him to his knees. “ _I love you_.”

Will sobbed relief, nails and tears scouring broad shoulders, hands and knees clutching as he climaxed. Hannibal held as tight as he could, until they were both shaking, and pleasure tore through him. The younger man came first, stripping hot between their chests, dragging a blinding orgasm through the older man soon after, coming deep in him, need torn from his throat with a groan of the boy’s name.

They clung to one another through the aftershocks. Trembling from the damp press of their skin and cool air. Will whimpered as Hannibal slid out of him, face pressed to a neck, and curled up to be held. The older man kissed a freckle on a shoulder, cradling a head and knees, sighing when tiny kisses dotted all over his face. They dozed against one another for some time.

Paper rustled against the floor.

They both creaked open eyes. Silas was hunched under the table, back to them, files and papers spread in a protective circle, humming loudly to the audible clang of a guitar piercing through earbuds.

“Oh hell…” Will dropped his head against a chest with a thud. “I forgot he was here. This is mortifying. How could you let this happen?”

Hannibal cleared his throat and tried to wrangle a twitch of lips trying to smile. “ _You_ , darling, were rutting against _me_ for relief.”

At the moment the younger man was an excellent modesty blanket. His uniform tangled beneath thighs. Will’s had somehow managed to land on the far side of the room.

“You know I make piss poor choices when you touch me. And it’s been _awhile_.” Fists hammered frustration and embarrassment against his waist.

“I would not categorize any of what just transpired by those words.” Hannibal lifted Will and carried him across the room. He kissed a temple and set him down. “This was more necessary than breathing.”

The younger man hopped and jumped back in to boxers and uniform, one hand gripped on a waist for balance. He grimaced as it stuck to his skin. Hannibal made the same face as he zipped up. In hind sight, both their uniforms should have been kicked across the room. The room held the distinct scent of sweat and sex.

“Is he okay?” Will wrinkled his nose and glanced beneath the table. “I think we traumatized him.”

The lawyer hummed even louder sensing movement behind him.

Hannibal was generally open in most aspects of his life. Welcoming new experiences. But as his cheeks became ruddy and tipped his ears the slightest hue of crimson, he couldn’t help but wonder if Will sucking his cock and then riding him— while his non-biological, metaphorical son remained in the room—was one he wanted to repeat. Or think about for any given length of time.

The younger man saw him blushing—a rare sighting— and began to laugh. For once not the one embarrassed. Hannibal turned his back to him, arms crossed, nose up.

“I suspect Silas will forget the event just fine.”

_I hope. Or block out the experience completely._

“Hold it—wait. Back up a bit. 'More necessary than breathing?'” Fingers wiggled through his arms and hugged his waist. “Are you seriously trying to make the medical argument that if you don’t suck my cock, or I don’t suck yours, you will asphyxiate and die?”

Maroon eyes slid over a shoulder and down to meet sparkling blue. “I’m ‘saying it with enthusiasm.’”

“Don’t patronize me.” A fist thudded against a kidney.

Hannibal groaned and dragged Will forward, lifting him several inches off the ground, kissing a nose fondly and smiled. “I love your mouth. I love you. Especially when you are angry with me. I never know what you might say. You surprise me.”

He wasn’t sure he would be able to move tomorrow, but he knew it would be worth it. More so when his cast came off and they could fuck properly.

Pearly teeth flashed before Will nuzzled against his neck, murmuring, “God, I love you too. You know, don’t you? Even when I act so fucking stupid. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. So sorry. I just needed to calm down.”

“I know, William.” He shook him a little just to hear him laugh, ears pricking at the sound and trying to memorize each note. “There is nothing you need to say I do not know like the trail of my own shadow.”

Will slid down his body till bare toes touched the floor and looked up. “Are we okay?”

“More than, darling one…” Hannibal murmured, kissing him lightly.

_I only wish to give you comfort. It is what I can control._

They both quirked their heads to look at the young man beneath the table, frowning.

“So…exactly what does one say after practically fucking in front of our lawyer?”

“Thank you would probably be a polite way to start.”

"Followed up quickly by 'sorry for ruining your life and years of therapy you'll require?'"

"I was going to disagree, but yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part One of : Angsty Make Up Sex Ensues
> 
> Part Two (pending next chapter): Angsty-We Threw Our Lawyer Out-to Have More Sex starring a cameo appearance by ______ .
> 
> I hope this was worth the wait! (I'm looking at you, Mae! Hahaha. We are MOSTLY sorry, Silas. Mostly. Look, buddy, you'll be alright. Just...uh...?)
> 
> If you need something to amuse yourselves in the mean time, I've been working on a new time stamp, "Run" featuring all four of our boys. I know one of you asked for that particular prompt, but for the life of me can't remember who.


	22. Chapter 22

“Arguably he would make an excellent key witness if his back hadn’t been turned.”

Will choked on a laugh and rolled his eyes. He could hear the tinge of cool blue in the older man’s tone. A coy smile. Tongue loosed and body relaxed. He loved the way his accent drawled every vowel when he was sated. He wanted to press his ear against a chest and savor every rumbling note. He listened to Hannibal lazily rustle back in to his uniform. He combed lightly at short hair. It wouldn’t be the first time he ended up with cum in his hair. Not that he minded—though the lack of shampoo was problematic—he just didn’t want to send their lawyer spiraling in a mental breakdown with physical evidence. The younger man snorted at the irony.

 _For exhibit A, copious amounts of Hannibal Lecter’s cum covering Will Lecter. For exhibit B, their former lawyer now receiving psychiatric treatment at the hospital_.

“I think that might be considered a conflict of interest, Hannibal.” The younger man cleared his throat and touched the back of his neck, looking down as it grew hot with embarrassment. “In an effort for transparency though, I _may_ have told Alana, Jack, and a handful of unknown federal agents…that we would…fuck in front of them?” He mumbled the rest underneath a palm. “There’s a possibility I may have also divulged other bits of information about the physical nature of our relationship you wouldn’t like. Like our interest in knife play and your proclivity for blood and biting.”

Fair eyebrows crept up forehead. “Oh?”

“Yeah. But I was under duress…so…hello?”

As a zipper slid neatly in to place, Will watched Hannibal struggle with conflicting emotions before drifting to daydream. Amber eyes squinted, scanning across the ceiling as if viewing whatever scenarios played out on his head. A chin tipped and a tongue flicked out. A definite sign of interest in the physical consummation. He had a feeling the older man had him bent over Jack’s desk, cock in one hand and fingers inside him. Then a gaze clouded and a cheek visibly flinched with jealousy. The younger man knew him well enough to recognize a faraway fantasy of killing everyone in a room who saw him unclothed and in the throes of passion. There was a single blink and the older man returned. It was one of Hannibal’s more curious habits. Like hypnosis. Brought on by ‘Will’ and ‘fuck’ usually in the same sentence. He tried his best to repress a grin.

Hannibal opened his mouth and continued on from before his mind blanked at the mere suggestion of fucking, smooth tone noting, “Silas has always been an impressively polite young man. If anything I admire the standard he sets for professional courtesy.”

Will looked at Hannibal with both hands hanging in the air, waiting for normalcy or sanity to return to either of them. As if he might grasp at the molecules of it and bring it in to physical being. He waited a hopeful second. What was the use? He dropped hands. Then stooped to look under the table. Their lawyer was tapping a pen erratically against a bent knee. He either had laser like focus on their files or he had mastered the art of thinking about anything but his clients banging several feet from him.

_There’s attorney client privilege for you at its best._

“He’s rocking in the fetal position for Chrissake.”

Bending at the waist, the older man observed nervous shuffling of paper and wobbling side to side to a clash of drums and nodded approvingly before standing again. “Enjoying his modern music. Multitasking it seems. Look how fiercely he studies our case.”

“You’re an _idiot_.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. He really shouldn’t have. Especially not given his current position and their proximity. It wasn’t even necessary to account for the come drying tacky on their skin. What they just did very loudly and in a semi-public place was a surprise. This was not. Yet, somehow when Hannibal put one hand on his stomach, the other on his hip, and rocked a half hard cock against his ass while bent over a table, a gasp of shock knocked out of him.

“I suspect…” The older man tugged till Will planted his hands on a metal surface, purring in his ear. “…you wouldn’t have disturbed him at all if you had been more vocal in your pleasure with a few more profane slurs of ‘fuck, fuck me harder, Doctor Lecter, deeper, deeper, baby.’”

His mouth fell open. His vision went blurry.

Hissing whistled between clenched teeth. “ _Don’t_.”

Will stared at the far wall. His ears rang so fucking loud he began to feel dizzy. If Hannibal’s trigger was his name and fuck in the same sentence, then this was his.

_Christ, his accent just makes it blissfully worse._

Dirty talk was hardly shocking. At least not for his part anyway. He knew pairing choice curse words with the older man’s formal title made them both rough and a little desperate. (Though he secretly wondered if managing to moan out eloquently phrased sexual innuendo would get his husband off without a single touch. He had once jokingly whispered Shakespeare’s _‘I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes’_ on a night drive through the country. There had been buttons and thread in the car for weeks.) He was rough, illicit and impolite in all the ways the older man seemed to enjoy.

But hearing Hannibal say it? Whispering desire without any finesse or structure was different. He groaned internally. It was rare. Unrefined. Rude. And blistering hot.

“Is this arousing you?” A playful chuckle pressed to his shoulder.

“Hannibal.”

 _You know very well it is._ _You fucking fuck. Fuck you. No, fuck me. Goddammit._

He wriggled toes in shoes, desperately trying to will away blood pooling in his groin. It was too soon for him to be this aroused. He was too sensitive.

“You object to the scenario?”

The younger man registered the rough dip in tone and braced on the table as his knees went weak. He would end up on the floor in a minute. By his own volition or rapid unconsciousness. Two fingers slid lightly down the curve of his spine. He shivered. Another soft laugh curled over his hair and slid along his jaw. Was it fair for something to sound that gorgeous and infuriating at the same time?

Breath coiled hot against the nape of his neck. “Would you prefer: ‘open your mouth, tongue my cockhead, Will, and suck harder, lick me clean’?’”

He moaned out loud. Lips curved in a smile against his skin. Memory startling vivid from an echo of the words spoken. He could hear rattling engines and hum of noisy tourists. City of _Ancona_ below them. The _bang, bang, bang_ of a headboard as Will muffled his own screams with a downy pillow, pleasure shaking his arms and knees. After hours of only the older man’s crimson mouth lingering on an ear, a cheek, a neck with only blunt edged filth. Whispered to him over a cup of espresso in a crowded café. While lingering in front of a shop window. Teased low as he was crowded against a full length mirror. He had been shaking by the time a taxi cab sped towards their hotel. He had dragged Hannibal to the elevators and started rutting against him as soon as they closed. Then threw him against their bed. They had a dozen or more verbal and written complaints for the noise. Even one tense visit from local police where Will was forced to open the door naked toweling his hair dry just to get them to leave. They were too distracted by his cock to recognize his face he imagined. 

“Christ…” The younger man muttered, yanking on the front of a freshly damp uniform.

Fiery eyes dragged from his mouth, across his chest, and lingered openly on a twitching cock. “Beautiful.” 

He turned to face the adoring voice, unpleasantly hard, a jumble of nerves and need once more. He had just started feeling calm and settled with a brain full of oxytocin. Now he was either going to strangle Hannibal or fuck him.

 _You are an unbelievable ass._ He sighed. _….Both. Probably both._

“Seeing as how we’re paying him by the hour, do you think maybe we should talk about our defense strategy?” He scowled and punctuated his irritation with a dramatic eye roll. “Instead of talking one another off?”

A toothy smirk rippled. Hannibal grabbed him roughly by the collar and bit his way up a neck, growling, “Roll your eyes at me again, William, and you will ride my cock until you are too weak and sore to stand, lawyer present or not. On the table I think. Understood?”

“Yes, Doctor Lecter.” Will snapped, groaning as fingers gripped his balls and slid up his dick, and quickly corrected. “ _Yes, Sir_. I understand. Though if you think I’m not going to fuck you until you scream, well, you have another thing coming.”

He rocked against a palm, letting his face fall heavily against a chest. This separation was going to kill him. Could one die from over sensitivity and multiple orgasms?

_What a way to go._

“Control yourself.” Hannibal smirked against his neck then ducked beneath a table.

Will was left to stare at a rude erection and shapely ass. How the hell did Hannibal manage to make a prison onesie look sexy?

His internal grumbling continued. _Probably makes burlap look en vogue._ _Ridiculous._

“Silas. Would you care to join us?”

Their lawyer yelped by the sudden proximity and booming voice, throwing a stack of papers in the air. They fluttered helplessly to the ground. Earbuds tore free from ears. An Iphone clattered blaring out one long guitar chord and shut off. Wavering saucer eyes darted up as Silas wheeled around knees to face them.

“I-I-I like the floor.” He stammered, huddling against a leg of a table. “The floor is good.”

His gaze flicked across the men crouched near. Flushed and sweat sheen skin. Hickeys on both their throats. Nails marks on the older man’s chest. Soiled uniforms. An undecided erection. Will and Silas made eye contact. It was quite possibly the most awkward fifteen seconds of his life. Then Silas turned pink then tomato red and then an alarming shade of eggplant. Was he choking or as uncomfortable as Will was?

“You're right!” Will blustered, banging his head on a corner of the table. He groaned. He tried his best to shift and cover up his arousal. “ _He’s_ got the right idea.” His hands motioned wildly in the air, pointing to Hannibal and then Silas. “ _You’ve_ got the right idea.”

His knees bent and delivered him to the floor in a heap.

_Fucking smooth and graceful. What a catch, Will, what a catch._

He rubbed a knot forming on his skull. At least the new splitting throb in his skull flagged his arousal. It unfortunately did not knock any sense in to him. He could hear the older man trying very hard to stifle laughter above them. At least someone found this bullshit amusing.

“Very campy. Should we, uh, build a blanket fort or something out of our clothes? Make sure we set the right tone for this inexplicably horrid session.”

Silas gaped at him, flushing several shades like a chameleon, tips of his ears bright red. Will heard the words in an echo and grimaced. He tried to convince himself it didn’t sound as suggestive and lewd as it came across. It did. Jesus Christ, how much did therapy cost these days again? With a sane psychiatrist. He sure as fuck wasn’t about to recommend Hannibal for the job. It would become an inception of therapy.

“You know what? I am going to shut my mouth now.”

“What… _the hell_ is wrong with you?” The lawyer turned and began to rake papers hurriedly to a pile.

Strangely it reminded Will of his strays frantically digging up the garden. Was that a panicked whine he heard? He missed Winston. He shoved the thought forcefully away.

“I’m still claiming insanity,” The younger man noted with a shrug.

“You have once already, dearest.”

Hannibal nudged until Will scooted forward and slid behind him, tipping his head against a table leg with a sigh. He touched a cast gingerly. He wondered if it ached. If he had put too much weight on his leg during their romp. Surely the thing had to come off soon. Did the bones heal properly? Would his husband have a perpetual limp? He leaned against a chest, sighing as arms enveloped. He tried not to think about that either. Every time he did he had the distinct urge to break bones and play cat in a cradle with torn out veins and cartilage.

_Those bastards…_

“You cannot. Neither can I. The law prevents it.”

The young man grunted a form of agreement and went to sorting papers according to their number. He nestled in a corner and flipped to a clean page on a legal pad, glancing at a watch to note the date and time.

_Maybe I should suggest he charge us extra for pain and suffering?_

Glasses flashed beneath a fringe of brown hair. Will was fairly certain a corner was cracked from when he had knocked their lawyer to the ground. Guilt welled up his throat.

“I’m sorry, Silas,” He said loudly.

Silas fidgeted with his gloves, nose wrinkling and nodded.

“I don’t know what to tell you. The last seventy two hours. No. No. The _last decade_ has been an extreme stressor on our relationship. The whole interrogation was a trigger for me. I act irrationally when provoked…” Will roughed up what little hair he had and spread his palms in contrition. “Seriously. I am…sorry. Thank you? Uh, therapy? Repression? Copious amounts of alcohol? I mean getting black out drunk is a lot less costly. Trust me. I know.”

“Your previous methods of coping are appalling, Will,” The older man noted dryly. “I too apologize for my behavior. It was unbecoming. You have been faithful and steadfast throughout our years. You deserve more than an apology, Silas.”

A fountain pen jabbed their direction. “You are both mad.”

Will and Hannibal shared a look. There was no arguing that. But how in the hell was anyone, especially him, supposed to survive without human connection after so many years of finally having it? It calmed him. He could feel the older man’s heart thudding against his spine. He grew drowsy. His head lolled to the side, exposing a red marked throat.

“Beyond s-stating the obvious…” Silas waved a gloved hand at their disheveled state and kept eyes fixed on the legal pad tucked against knees. “It is clear t-t-to me you love each other—possibly far more deeply or obsessively than one should—but love each other all the same. Let’s s-start there.”

“Silas?” The name rolled off a tongue smooth, but Will could feel a rumbling groan deep in a chest as fingers slid to his waist.

“Yes.” The lawyer sighed annoyance and pushed glasses up his nose. “What is it, Doctor Lecter?”

“After would you be a dear and fetch dinner? About forty minutes should be enough time.”

Will bolted up as he started to choke, slamming a palm on his chest before hiding behind hand and wrist, muttering, “Christ, Hannibal.”

“For…? _Never mind_.” Cheeks cycled through varying stages of embarrassment. “But you’re p-paying me for the full hour.”

“A reasonable request.”

The younger man shot a wriggle of bewilderment over his shoulder, mouthing silently, “I hate you.”

Hannibal beamed at him and kissed his cheek.

For the next two hours, Will tried to pay attention to what was being discussed. He really did. He even squinted and leaned forward, nodding fiercely. (Because every time he tried to open his mouth words came out a stammer or a slur of need.) His concentration, however, was having none of it. His focus bounced like marbles in a pinball machine. He fidgeted to keep fluctuating weight between his legs hidden. It wasn’t helping that his husband would _not_ keep his hands to himself. (He would have punched him in the shoulder except he was trying not to draw attention to either of them.) Hannibal enjoyed every second of his discomfort. His empathy made him keenly aware of intention every time the older man pressed lightly against his thigh, touched his hip, or pressed a thumb against his pulse. His eyes watered and he had to bite his tongue to keep from moaning when a hot palm slid over the scar on his stomach. His skin broke out in a faint sweat. His elbows clamped against hands tucked beneath arms to keep still. Was it impolite to excuse one’s self to a corner and jack off?

Silas must have sensed—out of the three of them— he was the only one actually interested in the case. If neither of them cared if they lived or died by the end of it then he might as well go get lunch. And then pretend to get stuck in traffic. Then sit in his car. Then linger in the lobby for another ten minutes or so until his presence grew suspicious. He grabbed his briefcase and let the door shut with a thud behind him. What was the point?

“Cut it out!” The younger man finally howled, jabbing an elbow against ribs.

Will yelped when the older man grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed forcefully. He landed against his stomach on the floor. Breath knocked out of him as a heavy body blanketed and began grinding.

“Off right now.” Hannibal groaned, tearing at zippers and fabric. “All of it.”

He groaned as he was rocked back on all fours, uniform splitting at the shoulder seam as it was torn off, fabric and boxers pooling at the bend of his knees. He kicked and wriggled until they were hurled away. Air cooled his naked skin. Will glanced over his shoulder to find Hannibal practically snarling with frustration. His uniform was tangled against the cast, thick erection bobbing obscenely and dripping with each yank on fabric.

_Oh fuck me. That’s beautiful._

“Would you like some help?” Will offered.

“Are you actively trying to incense me? Get this damn thing off me now.”

"You get _so rude_ when you want sex, Hannibal." The younger man flicked a smile towards a scowl.

Rolling on to his back, Will slid hands up thighs and lapped lazily at precome with a huff of laughter. A low groan shook through tensing legs. Hannibal was slick, burning up. He made direct eye contact with the older man as his fingers curled around fabric. It ripped down a side seam and slid free. He had a second to grapple a waist for balance. Then Hannibal was sliding along his tongue and fucking the back of his throat. He gagged and moaned as a head hit a swollen palate, swallowing a rush of liquid greedily. He left streaks of red from a taut ass to bend of knees. He wasn’t going to leave an inch of skin unmarked. Not if he could help it. He wanted his husband to press fingertips against each bruise or sting and think of him. Of this. A cock jerked in his mouth as the older man hissed before pulling out. Hannibal flipped Will on his stomach again and surged forward.

“God, _yes_!” The younger man cried out, inching his legs farther apart as a spit slicked cock dragged between cheeks. “Did you hear anything he said?”

“This is entirely your fault!” Hannibal kept hands clamped on his ass, pushing down to make sure he couldn’t rock back no matter how much he struggled. “How was I to concentrate with the scent of you lingering? Your ass wriggling between my thighs every second?”

“I don’t—ah!”

A thick head rubbed once against his hole and pushed in. Knuckles dragged across the floor as shoulders pushed back. He tried to buck. He was pinned in place. Weight of a shaking forearm digging in to his lower back. Will could see both their reflections in waxed tile. He was biting his lower lip, eyes watering. Hannibal was kneeling on his good leg, eyes glowing red in fierce concentration, easing just a swollen head in and out.

“You were saying?”

Hannibal sounded entirely too composed for Will’s liking. He wanted to tear at his hair. Claw at his back. Deny him release four fingers in him and gloat. Come all over his perfect, smug face.

“Read the fucking transcripts or his notes!” The younger man gasped, shoving between his body and the floor, groaning when his palm curved against a wet dick. He could barely move but the pressure was just enough. “What else was I supposed to do? I just kept hearing the last thing you said to me in my head. Watching you fuck me on a static loop.”

Hannibal wrenched the hand away with a growl and pinned it to the small of his back. Will moaned at the loss of wet heat and relief pressing in to him. Flat of a tongue lapped at sweat and white liquid clinging to a palm.

“ _Stay_.” The order was punctuated with a squeeze.

The younger man kept his arm against his spine, burying his face against the crook of an elbow. If he was able to think straight, he might have taken offense at being commanded like one of his strays. He couldn’t. Mind empty and tongue mute. All he could focus on was physical contact and how he trembled with each slide. He bit lightly at the skin on his wrist to muffle a whimper as Hannibal began to rub faintly between cheeks again. There was a push. Ring of muscle contracting. He tensed in anticipation. He was still loose from before. Ready. He needed more. He tilted hips up as best he could. There was a blissful stretch of an inch and then out again.

“Cocktease!” He growled disapprovingly.

The older man chuckled and somehow managed to give him even less. Barely breaching him at all. Moving in and out against a fluttering hole.

“ _Now.”_ Will thumped his head and palm against the floor, demanding. “I want you now! Fuck me right now, Hannibal, or I swear to—”

Hannibal gripped hips, drawing a smaller body back, and thrusting forward at the same time. Will scrabbled against thighs, suddenly seated, struggling to catch his breath. Every inch inside him. He could feel each twitch and throb. He began to pant as the older man shifted him slightly to rest against a broad chest, nudging until Will arched and felt a jolt against his prostrate. White liquid splashed up his stomach. He threw his head back against a shoulder and moaned. His hands were slid between the back of his thighs and the top of flexing ones beneath to keep him immobile. The older man licked down his throat, palms sliding over his body and thumbing sensitive nipples. He cried out, struggling to thrust up and back down on a cock. He trembled with restraint, feeling a deep groan against his shoulder, pulse of pleasure inside him at the visible act of submission. 

A pinky traced adoringly across the scar on his stomach. Another palm smoothed the nape of his neck, gripping at short hair and then flesh. Hannibal bowed Will forward at the waist, curled over knees, and begin to pound relentlessly against his prostrate. His vision whited out. His toes curled. He felt dripping wet of sweat and cum against his ass and between their legs. Ridges of fingers and palm clamped over his mouth. He knew desperate screams of _more, more, more_ were his own. Just as he was certain he would come or black out, thrusts and pleasure stopped as quickly as they started. 

Slurring pushed a palm away. “Why are you—“

Will felt Hannibal sway unsteadily against him and scrabbled off with a pop. The older man’s face was twisted with a grimace, eyes screwed shut, clutching at his cast. He was growing paler by the second. His pleasure addled brain finally caught up.

”Oh Christ, you’re leg!”

Looping elbows beneath arms, the younger man caught him and dragged them both from beneath the table. He managed to muscle the heavier body in the chair before Hannibal completely wilted, sharp nose falling against his shoulder with a snuffle of agony. This was not the kind of pain either of them enjoyed. He rubbed hands up and down a back cooing gently.

“Should we…?” He looked down at both their swollen erections and couldn’t quite bring him to say the words ‘stop.’ He wasn’t prepared to let either of them limp off in search of icy blasting water and lay alone in their prison bunks. “Do you want me to top?”

Angles of a face caught fire, burning brighter and brighter before the older man looked away, muttering, “And suffer the humiliation of not being able to fulfill my lurid promises from before? I think not!" Then he began to sulk. "All because a few creaky and uncooperative bones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silas: Fuck it. I'm out.
> 
> Hannibal: Okay, great, bye!


	23. Chapter 23

Will turned an automatic ‘aww’ to a sputtering cough, avoiding eye contact with a piercing flash of crimson. He couldn’t help it. Hannibal sounded so pitifully wounded. He looked miserable and couldn’t stop blushing to save his life. Was there anything more sweet than a husband willing to suffer to have exquisitely rough sex?

“Baby, as impressive as that was, you don’t have to black out to get me off,” The younger man chided gently, kissing him deeply until a frown disappeared.

Eyes narrowed. “It would have not been an issue if I had managed to bring you release first. William! You will stop making adoring, puppy eyes at me this instant!”

“Am I hurting your delicate pride, love?” Will teased, kissing against a mouth growling and trying to bite him like a feral lion. He pushed the older man against the chair, nuzzling a knee as he draped a leg over his shoulder. “Relax. I’ll take care of you. Try not to lose consciousness, hm? I know I’m good, but not that good.”

He laughed when Hannibal tried to kick him. Then melted a second later with a moan as a tongue licked a trail of briny liquid from an inner thigh. Will scooted hips to the edge of a chair, spreading legs then cheeks. The older man dropped his chin to a chest, eyes closed, panting anticipation. How long had it been since they had done this?

Will mouthed delicately against an inner thigh, gaze flicking up at each soft sigh of content it elicited. His tongue tracked a figure eight lazily around velvety balls. The older man jerked in the chair with a grunt before relaxing. He licked up a shaft and pressed a wet tip against a slit beaded in precome, wriggling in and out as he had been teased earlier.

Faint laughter ruffled his forehead as Hannibal slid fingers tenderly around his ears, stroking a buzzed hairline and murmured, “William, you are exquisite.”

“Stop it.” The younger man whispered, affection, love resounding in each note, clinging to his skin and bringing tears to his eyes. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

A gentle smile appeared and then melted. “My apologies.”

Internally scolding a well of tears, Will began to mouth a wet line down a bobbing shaft to lick lightly between cheeks. Hannibal stirred, sensing his distress and began to run fingertips over his face and hair. He clung a little tighter to the older man. He would not cry during this. The younger man buried damp eyes against a thigh and lapped at the ring of muscle until legs shivered around him. He closed eyes, listening to a hum of flushing skin and groans, focusing solely on his husband’s pleasure. He wanted him to forget all about where they were and why and just feel. To be present. With him. He flicked lightly at first until the grip against his neck and hair tightened. Then speared inside tight heat. Only the tip at first then pushed. He could taste a racing pulse. Heard shaky exhales, breath hitching in time to the older man’s. He alternated between tonguing unhurried circles to deep quick jabs. He felt pleasure sparking beneath his skin. He sank beneath the rhythm of hips lifting for more, matching each moan with a vibrating one of his own, fingertips sinking in flesh and thrusting hungrily. 

“I want you.” A hoarse voice implored. “Please, Will, let me have you.”

Will dragged a wrist across his mouth with a smile and helped Hannibal stand. His vision wobbled and he wasn’t sure which of them was dizzy. He placed a chair next to the head of the table and stacked their clothes on top of it for cushion. The older man hobbled forward and bent his cast leg against it. He felt him shivering, sneaking adoring glances up. He would never admit it, but Hannibal loved to be looked after with the same intensity and care he was able to give. The younger man slid around him, letting hands sweep lovingly over scratch marks, and glanced coyly over a shoulder.

“How do you feel…” Will lay across the table on his stomach, pillowed his head on arms, and spread legs on tiptoes to wriggle his backside against tense thighs. He kept his voice soft and lilting. “…about this? Is this okay, Hannibal?”

Nostrils flared with teasing scent of sweat. Pupils dilated desire. Hannibal drew an index finger appreciatively from swollen lips, down a spine, and swirled over an ass to caress an inner thigh. There was a bite mark, a faint white impression of teeth, the older man had given him months ago. Will shyly glanced upwards to see how Hannibal saw him. Pale skin flushed and soft against the stark harsh metal of the table. Friction from thighs rubbing the swell of his backside slightly pinked. Hair wild and eyes limpid blue beneath a sweep of lashes.

Hands trembled against his hips as Hannibal watched him, tears pricking his eyes, and choked out, “You are so beautiful.”

*

Glancing anxiously at a watch, Agent Charlie Thompson paced the hallway of interrogation rooms located in the lower levels of Quantico. He wasn’t exactly an agent. Per se. In training. He was growing increasingly anxious. He had the feeling his status, as technical as it was, could be obliterated in a single breath. He looked at the time again. The Lecter’s lawyer had been gone for far longer than it took to drive across town and back. Where the hell was he anyway? It’s not like he was supposed to be here. Larson, his immediate superior, had skipped out on him to chase after a skirt an hour back. He was supposed to be watching the prisoners. He didn’t even know who he was supposed to be in charge of. In charge? Not him. He pushed papers and crunched numbers. And he liked it that way.

He stopped pacing in front of a closed door again. Something scraped across the floor. His hand strayed to a firearm strapped to his waist. Should he call someone? No, no. That would only draw attention to himself. It wasn’t his fault their lawyer up and left without a single word. He had chased him all the way to the elevators before the man finally took the stairs and escaped. Should he make sure everything was in order? He paled. Having inmates die under his watch had to be an automatic case for termination. He circled the hallway one more time. It was empty except for a single secretary minding the phones.

He pressed an ear to the door.

“You feel—fuck—so good.” A low voice gasped. “I want to hear if I make you feel good, baby.”

Someone grunted an inaudible response over another scrape.

“Like that? What about…nnn. Jesus Christ, I can feel you in my throat. Can you give me more? I don’t want to hurt you.”

Thompson felt his eyelids strain open till they burned, jaw unhinging. They couldn’t possibly be—

“Deeper!” Scraping turned to louder and louder banging. “Ah! Ah, fuck! There, there!”

There was an audible slap and a growl. “Not yet!”

The agent jumped.

“You’re going to make me come, Hannibal.” A whine turned to a warbling moan of impatience. “Again. Jesus, ah, fuck, baby!”

“If you yell much louder we are going to be caught.”

“Do you want me to tongue you? Suck you?”

“Tell me what you want, Will.”

“I want you on my cock.”

Tips of his ears began to glow and then burn. His mouth was dry. What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to do something? Was there a protocol for this? Oh god, he was going to lose his position for sure!

_Position? Oh JESUS._

Booming startled him. “Agent Thompson?”

“M-m-mister Crawford!” The agent whirled around, holding both hands up defensively, squarely blocking the door.

The shadow of his immediate boss loomed over him. He was so fucking tall. It was unnatural. His stomach roiled sour as panic clawed through him. Piercing black eyes observed with a ruthless sweep. His palms began to sweat.

“Mister?” Jack Crawford lumbered forward, arms crossing, frowning.

“Agent. _Aaaagent Crawford_.” He laughed nervously. Thompson tugged frantically at the collar of his shirt. “They’re not. Uh, uh, uh.” He jammed hands in his pockets, voice growing more shrill as he blustered for the right words. What was he supposed to do! “Done. Yet.”

“What are you talking about, Thompson? I saw their lawyer leave for lunch forty five minutes ago when I was coming in.”

“N-n-no, they’re still—uuuuummm.“

Leathery shoes took another menacing step forward, meaty hands going for a firearm. “If you lost them, or they escaped I swear to—“

"-Well. NO. It's just."

Jack Crawford was gripping a thick file in one hand and his gun in the other. He wasn’t going to be fired. He was going to be shot execution style. Oh what had he done in his short blip of a life to deserve this? He missed his stapler and copious amount of comforting paper clips.

“It’s just—“

“Move.”

The agent fell against the wall and scrabbled to grab his boss by the back of his tailored jacket. He would haul him down the hall and out of the building if he had to. Locks rattled and the door opened. It was too late. Between Agent Crawford’s mammoth frame of shoulders and elbows, Thompson saw the scene beyond and nearly fainted.

Slapping skin and wet squelches filled the hall. Both inmates were covered in sweat. And nothing else.

“Oh you’re so tight, Doctor, fuck I love fucking you.”

“More.” Nails sank deep in ass cheeks, pulling slender hips forcefully forward and back. “ _More._ ”

The slimmer of two men pulled out and thrust so hard the table moved at least three inches. His back was covered in scratch marks. He was pounding another man stretched out on the table obscured from view. A cast leg balanced on the chair, and the other locked rigid around a thigh, arm beneath a knee to keep it bent and open.

“I’m so ah, ah, ah close!”

“Touch me. Touch my cock. Make me come, Will."

Thompson clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a squeak as the younger man moved slightly and slid a palm around a swollen cock in a flurry of movement. It was Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter! He was vaguely aware of the sound of a file folder dropping and pages floating away.

“I love you. I love you, I love—“ Hannibal gripped hair and kissed the other man deeply, pulling them chest to chest. “—you, Hann. I, ah ah ah yes!”

Rhythm became erratic, hands and mouths and legs pushing and pulling, then there were two successive moans, one deep and the other high. Liquid spurted between chests and dripped down thighs. Then everything stopped. Will collapsed against Hannibal. A head thud weakly against the table. Both men panting.

Thompson didn’t dare raise his eyes any further than the twitch of a vein bulging hand resting on a firearm. He had never seen Jack Crawford stand so still.

“ _Restare. Ascolta_.” A thick accent murmured hoarsely. “ _Bel ragazzo, bel marito, ti amo. Sai quanto ti amo, William?_ ”

(Stay. Listen. Beautiful boy, beautiful husband, I love you. Do you know how much I love you, William?)

Shaking hands smoothed silvery hair. “How much?”

_“Infinitamente. Sempre. Fino alla morte.”_

_(Forever. Always. Till death.)_

“I love you too, Hannibal.” Blue eyes fluttered as the slender one shifted slightly to kiss a jaw then the corner of a mouth, sighing.

Did he see tears in their eyes?

A sweaty palm lifted and waved from beneath a naked body. “H…h-hello, Jack.”

Thompson shrieked and covered his eyes.

“ _Oh mother fucking Christ!”_ Something banged. Someone swore. The table shuddered again. _” JACK_!”

He peered through slotted fingers.

Hannibal practically lounged with a coy smile. One leg, and both hands, firmly wrapped around a narrow waist and held Will against him, inside him. Will turned about three different shades of umber and then beet red before dropping on top of the other man and hiding behind palms, face turned against a shoulder.

The agent sneaked a furtive glance at Jack. If he made direct eye contact, the man might burst in to flames, or turn him to dust.

His boss had drawn his gun, pointing it.

“Get off him and get on your knees!”

“I…nope.” Dark hair on a head shook frantically against a chest, muttering. “No. Leave it alone, Will. Just…”

Jagged teeth flashed. “A bit late for that. And physically a stretch given our age. Seeing as how I have gotten Will off twice already.”

“Oh God.” A horrified groan echoed. Heat reached ears and tipped them crimson. Will slid against a chest and threw arms over his head, whispering, “Why do you _hate_ me?”

“If that was hate fucking, darling, I think our audience—God included since you insist on bringing him in to it—might like to know what kind of desperate symphony our love making creates.” Hannibal cleared his throat, propping up an elbow, and arched a brow. “Will?”

A rigid fist banged on a chest. “Shut. The FUCK. Up.”

“I hate to disappoint, but without proper lubrication I am a bit too sore for another round. Though I am impressed with your refractory period and how hard you are inside me. Tell me, do you enjoy putting me on such debauched display for dear Uncle Jack, Will? Is this your design?”

Thompson jumped out of the way as Jack Crawford barreled past, gun swinging at his side, and charged down the hallway. He had turned a color of raspberry chocolate. He marched up to the nearest desk a few meters away and pointed at a terrified secretary. He was not far enough to be out of earshot of the prisoners conversation.

“I want security! The warden! And Alana fucking Bloom here right now!”

Muffled shouts turned to giggles and rose to raucous laughter.

“Come back, Jack, you didn’t get it on film! How else are you going to be a key witness in our defense?”

“And their lawyer! Get Silas on the phone!” A demon roared, shaking the walls of Quantico.

“Shh, shh! You will deny him the pleasure of processing a crime scene of passion.”

“Ah hell.” There was a wet pop and a groan. “I’ve never seen so much cum. It's everywhere. Jesus. Help me get dressed, would you? I’m not going to be able to walk straight for a week.”

Thompson flattened against the wall near the door, hand on his firearm, not sure if he was supposed to shoot the inmates or his boss if he went ballistic. Unfortunately that meant he could hear even more clearly than Jack what was going on in the room.

A fist battered a desk, drowning out squeaking. “Phone! Now! Right now.”

“We will both enter court with a limp then. You in particular. Should I relieve you of such a spectacular ache?”

“I haven’t so much as jerked off or seen you naked in months, all right, shut the fuck up! Put some goddamn clothes on.”

“I cannot stand, Will, you will have to dress me.”

“Hopeless, baby, hopeless.” Fabric rustled to the audible slide of lips chaffing and tongues meeting. There was a deep wet moan and then, “Oh god, don’t. _Dooon’t_.”

A caramelized rumble of pleasure rang sharp. “Fuck yourself in my palm, Will.”

Jack swung around and pointed both gun and index finger at Thompson cowering nearby and shouted, “Get them the hell out of here!”

“But shouldn’t I—“

“Ah, ah, ah, Hannibal, Haaannibal. Nnnn, _Doctor Lecter_!”

Jack Crawford dropped his gun and slapped palms over ears. He would never be able to un-hear that. Or drink enough to scrub away the images of his former friend and greatest nemesis, taking it up the ass while his former protege and prodigal son jerked him off. 

"OH FUCK!"

The secretary blushed and raced down the hall. A screeching voice was swinging with the telephone cord. Thompson stared blankly at a far wall and wondered what his chances were at staying at his current job.

“How does that make you feel?” Soft laughter echoed.

“…Nnnnnn…”

"Mute and nearly unconscious evidently. Very good."

Five armed guards banged down the hall and followed a shaking hand pointing at an open door.

“OUT! OUT! NOW!”

Just as guards rushed in, elevator doors dinged pleasantly. Silas stepped out of them, eyes on his phone, holding a black paper take out bag.

“SILAS!” Jack Crawford screamed. “I am going to have you arrested!”

The lawyer started, dropping bag and cell phone, paling the shade of custard and visibly shaking. “For b-b-buying lunch?”

Thompson squinted at the lawyer. He was swaying a little. Whiskey and cigarettes wafted off his person. Wait. Was he drunk?

Jack raised a fist to bellow for another twenty minutes. “For—“

“Is that food?” Someone slurred.

Armed guards grimaced, eyes glued to the floor. Will was led out first, arms wrenched behind his back. He stumbled like a drunk, eyelids drooping, cheeks pink. His uniform remained unzipped, exposing a chest covered in cum and sweat. Hannibal was dragged out behind him, worse for wear, hair a disheveled mess of silver and what was left of a tattered uniform swinging around his cast. He was licking at a pleased pout of a smile before winking at Jack.

“I’m so fucking hungry.”

“We did work up quite an appetite.” Hannibal wrenched to the right of his guard and slid a kiss against Will’s cheek. “Take care, darling.” Will jerked, twisting, until their mouths met before being hauled apart. “Silas, could you arrange to bring that to our cells shortly?”

The lawyer gaped at them and then looked at the bag of Styrofoam containers at his feet. His cell phone screen was cracked. He sighed. He just bought that one.

"I need another drink..." Silas muttered.

"I'll take about a hundred of anything eighty proof or higher," Jack returned coldly.

“I would love a fresh uniform.” Will grunted with a grin as he was dragged by. “And some ice. _Fucking hell_. Definitely ice. And a whiskey on the rocks?” He peered at contents of the bag fleetingly then at Silas. "That's not in there is it?"

“My apologies once more, darling!” Hannibal called sweetly then addressed their lawyer. “As would I. The uniform. Not the ice. Do ask Will if he experiences further discomfort or any bruising on his cock or thighs, would you? You might also admonish him not to masturbate too soon as it may be painful. See you in twenty minutes? Thank you for a lovely day, Jack!”

"Fuck off!" The man roared, turning red.

"Already did!" Hannibal waved cheerily over his shoulder.

“I don’t t-t-think—“

Silas stammered, lifting his eyes to stare at Quantico practically burning to the ground around him then back at the prisoners. He glanced down at his Timex. How long had he been gone? How much had he had to drink to the point none of this bothered him? Enough. Definitely enough.

One terrified young agent slumped against the wall. Infamous Jack Crawford was heaving breaths, shoulders jerking, and looked like he was a second before shooting up the place. Or shooting him directly in the head. And Will and Hannibal were still laughing as they were led away.

“Oh dear.”

Things weren't so bad. He glanced down at the Styrofoam containers again. At least he still had food. Was rather drunk. And kept most of his sanity in tact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you aren't dying of laughter by now, I did something wrong. My sides hurt.
> 
> THAT'S WHAT YOU GET, JACK.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to say, 'welcome back my beloved readers,' but I mean, what the hell kind of welcome is this? Unless a formal greeting is a sucker punch to the heart? (I feel like my divine punishment should be to swap places with Prometheus here for bit. If you're not crying, well, I am. So.)
> 
> :runs away screaming: Why do I keep doing this to us? (You may now submit for your new therapy sessions at the nearest blanket fort.)
> 
> In all seriousness though, hello my faithful readers and dear friends, the lights of my life, let our journey together begin. And I look forward to sharing it and talking once more. Thank you for the boundless support. You know I couldn't do it without you!
> 
> *
> 
> Breathe x Fleurie
> 
> Before my eyes, before my wild eyes  
> I feel you holding me, tighter I cannot see  
> When will we finally  
> Breathe
> 
> (Author's Notes: 6.29.19 : Since the original work got wiped, I will be attempting to repost the chapters here. Bear with me, as we all know, this work is massive. )


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